


City of glass

by Spiritofdawn



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crime, F/M, Gen, Historical, Multi, Politics, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:28:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 152,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiritofdawn/pseuds/Spiritofdawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The names, the places they live, the places they visit, the women they sleep with, we know it well" And that's how it starts. As Paris is boiling with rumors of revolution, an attempt is made to cut off the rebellion at the source - once and for all. A story of dreams and ruthlessness, of love and hate, of fear and courage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The City of glass

Prologue: The city of glass

 

I have dreamt of a city, a city of glass  
In the darkest of hours before morning  
Of the beauty alluring and danger about  
That then shifted from glory to warning

I have dreamt of a city, a city of glass  
Where your wishes appear brightly clear  
For the glass is deceiving the eye and the mind  
And it shows, what is faraway, near

I have dreamt of a city, a city of glass  
Seen the shards lying amidst the beauty  
And I’ve seen how it cut, and then I understood  
That the soul is the cruel glasses booty

I have dreamt of a city, a city of glass  
And I’ve feared to speak, lest it shatters  
And I’ve feared to whisper, lest dragons still sleep  
And I’ve feared to do that, which matters

I have dreamt of a city, a city of glass  
I have dreamt of a friendship eternal  
That first saw glass and shards and then dreamt of the sky  
Of the perishing of the infernal

I have dreamt of a city, a city of glass  
That once beautiful was in its splendor  
That’s beautiful now only to those who do not  
Miss love, not miss truth, not miss candor

I have dreamt of a city, a city of glass  
I have wished all its walls torn asunder  
Wished the walls gone away, that invisible, still  
Are a prison that will fall in thunder

Jean Prouvaire, winter 1932


	2. On the observational power of a Thénardier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Éponine and Gavroche make a few curious observations and Enjolras realizes that things are exactly what they are supposed to be.

Chapter 1: On the observational powers of a Thenadier

”The true secrets, the important things. Fourteen words to make someone fall in love with you forever. Seven words to make them go without pain, or to say goodbye to a friend who is dying. How to be poor, how to be rich, how to rediscover a dream the world has stolen from you.”

Summer had come early this year.  
It was the a day in May, and already the air carried a promise of the hot days still to come, the air cruelly unmoving through the narrow alleys and bustling streets of Paris.  
With the heat came all those things that were present all over the year, but multiplied during the warm days of summer, the stench of decay, of water rotting, of the remnants of too many humans in too little space. The air was stifling and unpleasant in the central quarters of Paris.  
Eponine could not have cared less. She was used to all facets of the city, both the ugly and the dreadful, and she had long learned to live with it. A life like hers left no time for complaints. At least not for those about the weather.  
She moved through the city unseen like a ghost. That was one of the first things she had learned, when they had started to fall on hard times. Those who were invisible were untouchable, and that was as much as protection as you got, when you were poor, desperate and without friends as Eponine was. She fooled herself that she was watching out for him, as he walked through the kingdom that was rightfully hers, the back alleys and dark places of St. Michel, tolerable at day, deathly at night, fooled herself that she only tried to protect a source of income as one would watch a valuable good.  
A trade of sorts. He offered as much protection to her in another world.  
And a profound and utter lie.  
As she trailed behind the young student, that was not hers, she could not help realizing the queer mood around the streets, the city holding its breath at the days to come.  
They were torn between poles at the best of times, between fear and fright, the everlasting devastation of a world unjust prominent wherever one turned, and yet things were stirring beneath the heat and the oppression, whispers travelling through the city, wandering from mouth to ear.  
Sometimes, Eponine could not shake the feeling of walking over unsteady ground, as if the earth itself under her feet were prone to shifts and variations, like a huge animal shaking in uneasy sleep. She kept a close eye on these motions. A lack of knowledge and attention got you killed in this predator of a city.  
Now however, the whispers had died down and been replaced with the sort of tension that the air carries right before the eruption of a thunderstorm. Not the silence of death, but rather of a tiger just before the jump.  
And that was, among other things, why she was following Marius Pontmercy, who was sweetly oblivious to all these signs and portents, hidden in his own world of hopes and dreams that she would forever be excluded from.  
She was no fool. Slim as any hope might have been that she had harbored, it had died the moment that Marius laid eyes on the perfection that was Cosette, the girl-turned-woman that now, after years passed, was everything that Eponine was not.  
Wealthy.  
Beautiful.  
Talented.  
And, chief among them – loved by Marius.  
Secretly they were trading whispers between the iron fences of the Rue Plument estate, and Eponine watched from the shadows, sicker with every minute of it.  
There was a time when she thought she might be able to stand a chance with him. A time, where she would see him in the morning, leaving the estate, exchanging a friendly word or two with her, and where her nights would end with him, when he came back from the group of friends he spent his time with, tired, but apparently happy, and again, there would be words, and sometimes even a smile. Now, all his smiles were for her.  
And yet, she could not turn away. There was something, that still drew her to him, no matter what the circumstances, now matter how little attention he paid her.  
Pathetic. As she had always been. Following him around like a dog, begging for his attention as sometimes she begged for coins or bread. Would, that she could steal his affections as she stole the purses of the rich, but that was not to be.   
And this it was, that made love precious above everything else.  
Silently, she pressed herself into a niche in the garden wall of a house opposite number 55 rue Plumet and waited, silently, while the joy of the two lovers tore her apart at the seams.  
Yet, hidden, invisible, cloaked in darkness as she was, she was in the perfect position to see the man.  
The first time he passed the house in Rue Plumet, she paid him little heed, watchful only of the oblivious pair on the other side of the street, annoyed, if anything, by the fact, that his brown coat obstructed her view onto Marius and Cosette for a few moments. The second time however, when she saw him passing by, five minutes later, no more, he caught her attention all the more.   
She was used to pay attention to the little details, the oddities, the inaccuracies, and there were some in the scenery that made her pause.  
The man passed by on the street, his gaze resting on the two figures for just a moment too long. His back was turned to Eponine so that she could not read his face, but his posture belied an alertness that he unsuccessfully tried to hide by a minuscule shrug when he turned away again. A sheltered young woman might have been fooled by the gesture, however, the streetwise gamine was not.  
It was very obvious that she was not the only one that was trailing Marius Pontmercy.  
Frowning, Eponine committed the strange figure to memory.  
Slender, tall, an air of careful elegance about him. In addition, a face that was cut in strong, deep lines, a man just past thirty, yet with signs of a hard life deeply engraved into his features. A prominent nose, but not so much as to be overly remarkable, keen, dark eyes, black hair cut close to his head.  
All in all a man in thousands, of the lower bourgeoisie, well dressed and unremarkable.  
Those were the most dangerous ones.  
The air in the café was hot and stifling, the smell and feel of too many people and too much excitement filling the air with a fragrance thick enough to cut. The air coming in through the windows that had been thrown wide open long ago was not helping, because it was in more than one sense the eve of a storm, and the promise of rain, thunder and lightning filled the city with lead.  
It was the hour of dusk, the light fleeing the dirty streets of Paris without any glory that sunsets bring at times, for the sky was clouded with the grey of the looming thunderstorm.  
For a brief moment, Sebastien Enjolras hesitated before stepping down from the table, holding the tension of his final words for just a few instants longer, before he slightly relaxed his posture and releasd the crowd from their attention.  
It came naturally to him, the gift of speech and charisma, and belief, pure utter belief behind it colored all of his words even sweeter.  
He considered stepping out for a moment, allowing himself a fresh breath of air, but he could sense, that this was not chief among the good ideas. As for all storms, it would do well to ride them out in protected environment. And a storm was brewing both on the outside and the inside of the café.  
The crowd was humming with excitement, both good and bad, as Enjolras had just confirmed what the city had been whispering for a few days now.  
General Lamarque, voice of the people in the king’s parliament, one of the few minds of reason to appeal to in these perilous times, was lying abed with the illness that had the whole city in its strangling grip.  
Who knew, if he would last.  
And – to repeat the words that Enjolras had just spoken – who knew, what would be possible if he did not.  
He passed through the crowds, feeling applauding hands on his shoulder, now here, now there, enthusiasm boiling over as he calmly surveyed those who had come.  
He exchanged a brief nod with Combeferre, who was standing a trifle aside the brawl, giving him an appreciative nod and he slightest of smiles, felt friendly shoves from Joly and Coufeyrac, who had led the crowd into a bout of cheering calls, “vive la France, vive la république” could be heard from all ends of the café and this brought forth a small smile to his lips. Their enthusiasm was invigorating and highly contagious, a more addictive substance than absinthe could ever be, but he kept his head clear, noting their cheers as just the next step on a long way, nothing more.  
There would be time to go out on the streets again, to spread the word among those, that were not part of this inner circle in the back room of the café Musain, to rally the people behind the dream of what should have been two years ago, but what had been stolen from them for the second time in not even fifty years.  
Egalité. Liberté. Fraternité.  
The words had lost none of their promise and magic.  
He looked around as the bottles of wine were circulating, the evening going from serious to cheerful, and he could not help smiling. Let them celebrate for now, let them feel what they were longing for.   
Enjolras noticed that Pontmercy was conspicuously absent – again he might add, and that Grantaire was sitting at a table amidst the brawl, almost unruffled as the emotions were boiling high around him.   
Things were, as they had been so often before.  
And yet he felt, inexplicably, that everything were coming into focus. The city was like a kettle close to boiling. Something would give, and it might well be, that the impending death of the valiant general would prove to be the spark to this particular powder keg.  
Enjolras certainly did not wish the man ill – he was one of the few members of the congregational assembly with a minimum of dignity and honor – but he understood the sacrifices that were needed to set things in motion, and this motion he prayed for with every fiber of his being. But a plant only grew from a seed, and a seed must be sown into the fertile ground of the trembling city.  
Time was running short.  
The day would come where they would set the city aflame.

“Oi mate, take a watch where y’are going!”  
Not really paying attention, Gavroche had hurried into the Café Musain and almost tripped over one of the visitors there, who, in a calm, yet decisive movement, set for leaving the café.   
The man shoved the gamin aside, not unfriendly, but with the same determined agitation, his movements fast, controlled and fluent.   
Gavroche quickly skimmed him, placed him as well off, but not rich, unremarkable, a small merchant maybe, with enough money to make a pickpocketing attempt worthwhile (but he did not do that, not here, amidst Les Amis, who probably would take offense at something like that in the end…), yet a fellow he had not seen here before, but then, the café Musain had recently acquired a sort of colorful reputation, to say the least, and this attracted all sorts of folk.  
“I’d say tha same to you.”  
The remark was offhand, and brought forth in a quiet voice with a slightly sardonic ring to it, but that was not what caught Gavroche’s attention. It was rather a way of pronouncing, the lilt in the voice, a slurring, that was altogether familiar to the boy as the back of his hand.   
A hint of argot color in the voice of a man that was distinctively not originating from the gutter.  
Gavroche hesitated – for a minuscule moment only, because thinking too long on unimportant stuff brought you naught but trouble – and for the fraction of a second, he saw something glitter in the eyes of the man, flittering between a frown and something that was almost disgust – and that was indeed a strange thing in the open, bustling atmosphere that was the Musain.  
Yet, the moment was over too quickly, and Gavroche murmured an apology, more for the sake of appearances than anything else, and hurried off, watching from the corner of his eye, that the man shook himself and silently left the café without any further glance back.  
“Weird”, the boy murmured and quickly scanned the faces around. Michelle, the patron’s wife was standing behind the counter, giving him a curt nod that told him, that the back room was populated despite the early hour, and he turned towards the way to the back room to see who was there, and what was brewing these days, to trade rumors and stories and plans.  
Greeting Joly and Combeferre, who apparently had been in early from their lessons, deeply in discussion on the spreading of cholera that held the city in a firm death grip, Gavroche put the incident during his entering of the café out of his mind.   
It had, in the end, not been as unusual as that.


	3. A slightly different Rue Plumet scenario

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where a speech is given, a knife is drawn and a life is saved

**Chapter 2: A slightly different Rue Plumet scenario**   
_“Because the alternative is too terrible to consider. Without the hope that things will get better, that our inheriters will know a world that is fuller and richer than our own, life is pointless, and evolution is vastly overrated.”_

They never carried names. They had no use for them.  
They knew each other by faces, and the fact that they all shared the same speech, the same knowledge, and followed the same shadowy path.  
There were six of them, a band of brothers, and even though they had no use for names, they had use for distinctions among them, and thus they were, the Juggler, the Friend, the Shadow, the Knife, the Boy and the Hound.  
There had been a Gun once among them, in the beginning, when they still had been seven, but his use had expired, and he had vanished without a trace.  
They lived today, and thus had not mourned him.  
The Hound was sitting in the chapel, a man barely past thirty but looking older, his features sharp, hollow and gaunt under retreating, pitch-black hair. He might have been handsome, but for the traces that some plight had relentlessly hammered into his face, and he listened attentively, his face half hidden in the shadows of the flickering candle light. The words of the Friend usually were worth listening to.  
And with every word, there was a smile that grew on his face.  
And, as the Friend finally ended, a single nod.

 

The marketplace was packed with people, as was customary on a Saturday, and the screams of the vendors mingled with the sounds of various animals being herded and traded, the laughter of children, the cries of the beggars.  
This was one of the poorest of markets, the one you went looking for when you tried to cover your basic needs, food, simple clothing, probably a hen, if you were lucky and had managed to scramble together some more coins.  
The storm had ridden itself out during the night, and in the morning, the world appeared fresh and new, the still moist pavement in the strengthening sunlight gave even the poorest of surroundings a certain, crude beauty.  
They were three of them here – the others had turned towards other places where there were crowds to be found – and three should be a good number, enough to get attention and supervise the situation, but few enough to scatter and hide should the everything take a turn for the worse.  
Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras and Jean Prouvaire, whom they called Jehan, strode onto the market with all the confidence of men on a just cause, walked through the alleyways without even a side glance at the goods that were traded and sold here. Their mission was a different one.  
Eponine watched them from the shadows of a baker’s stand, in parts surveying the proceedings around the group of students, in part waiting for an unwatched moment to nick a pastry from the stand and quickly disappear into the crowd.  
For a brief moment, she wondered on the effect that the actions the young men planned would have, had they began their visit to the market by going from stand to stand, by buying some of the things for sale and discussing with the patrons, taking part in the haggling, hustling and bustling, that everyone except for them had come here for.  
But then, Eponine concluded, they would probably just get themselves on the really bad side of a deal. Which again would not exactly inspire confidence.  
There was a saying that one should stay with what one was good at. Therefore, it was probably a good thing, that Enjolras, in posture and demeanor clearly the leader over the small group, looked out for a convenient place to go, somewhere elevated where he could be seen from all over the market, instead of trying to mingle with a crowd, that, for all the sympathy that he harbored for them, was very distinctively not his.  
He finally found a staircase leading up to the first floor of a tanner’s shop, a series of wooden steps, steep but solid, and in plain view of the whole place and found it suitable to his purpose.  
He attracted attention as he placed himself there, a beautiful young man, his blond hair glowing in the morning sun, and he waited for a few instants more for a crowd to assemble, while Jehan and Marius had placed themselves at some distance, surveying the place and the steady stream of curious bypassers, that was forming in direction of the spectacle to be, and while Eponine, still standing beside the baker’s stand, watched Marius with a hunger that had nothing to do with a breakfast missed.  
He was so alive this morning, eyes sparkling, an air of excitement around him that called out to her in the most cruel, most unintentional way. It was the sweetest torture, and she was addicted to it.  
The opportunity presented itself just as Enjolras began to speak, his strong voice carrying far, which caused the people around her to turn her head, and a raisin bread to drop into Eponine’s pocket.  
Casually, she strolled away from the baker’s stand, in the general direction of Marius, while she absent-mindedly listened to what the revolutionist was saying.  
“Citizens, Parisians, compatriots”, Enjolras began, looking around at the group of spectators that had formed and was growing. “I stand before you as a messenger, the bearer of news such that no one should be forced to deliver, and yet, truth is one of the fundamentals of the world as it should be, and hence, I cannot keep silent, nor hide from you what is meant to be told. Yes. General Lamarque, the man that all of us know and worship, is ill, and fading fast.”  
There was a murmur in the crowd at that. Lamarque, generally honored by those of lowly birth, had been a focal point of trust for those that assembled at the market, assuming that they still retained the ability to trust at all. Rumors had been spreading for a few days now, and hearing it voiced in such a public way made the situation only graver.  
Enjolras bode his time patiently, waiting until the murmurs had died down again before he continued speaking, and as his voice vibrated over the place, there was a fire in his eyes, a liveliness in his gestures, that reached out in its conviction and sincerity, across all borders of class and wealth, and in that one moment, the audience before him was indeed his. “And yet – the question is: What do we learn from this? These events, my compatriots, only show in sharp profile what is wrong, what is the danger of today, only show all the more, what you, me, all of us have been robbed off two years ago. Our lives, our fate hangs on the nobility, the sensibility of few men, on their mercy towards us that may be well deserved, but can never be demanded. Lamarque is a man of the people – yes! And by chance, by pure chance, he found a voice of influence now and then, and preciously seldom at that, as you well know. So I ask you – can you, can we rely on this? Who are we to still expect only the crumbs of the table, who are we to still expect someone to do for us what is should rightfully be taken into our own hands? Are we not their equals? Are we not human ourselves?”  
Again, he paused, as the crowd waited anxiously, while Eponine had reached Marius, taking a bite of the sweet bread she had nicked. The young student was beaming, not precisely at her, more at the situation itself, but a reflection of this brightness also touched her with gentle fingers and warmed her core.  
“It’s going well, isn’t it?” he asked enthusiastically, and Eponine could have wept for hearing him talk about something else than the eternal litany of the many virtues of Cosette. Rather listen to his dreams. They were meant well at least.  
Yet, she was a bit at loss as to what to reply and resorted to an undefined “mmh”, her mouth still full of the bite of bread that she had had, but Marius didn’t seem to mind.  
“It’s going to happen”, he continued excitedly, “it’s really going to happen!”  
Eponine was doubtful, but did not have the heart to quench his enthusiasm. Her own life did not inspire the belief that things were ever in any way, shape or form, becoming better at all. Best accept it and be over with the fickle concept of hope.  
Her own heart, when watching Marius Pontmercy, violently disagreed with that philosophy.  
“If he continues like that, that may be so”, she therefore replied ambiguously and Marius laughed, placing a quick hand on her shoulder. “You are a real friend”, he replied, and despite everything, she felt her heart melt. So there was still something of a revolutionary in Marius, deep beneath layers and layers of a lovesick fool. Speaking of hope…  
“And therefore I say”, Enjolras continued, his voice rising, “let us take our fate back to our own hands! Is this not the city, that has not once, but twice overthrown oppression? Is this not the city where the voice of the people, louder than anywhere else in the world, has shouted out with a thousand tones ‘what cannot be borne shall not be borne’? Is this not Paris? And are we not all children of the revolution?”  
A few cheers came from the crowd, fewer of course than in the habitual café Musain sessions, but still, not bad for a rich boy preaching to an audience of beggars. “And do we not”, continued Enjolras, a bit more softly, “have hope?”  
A whistle distracted the attention of both Eponine and Marius, as they saw Jehan pushing his way towards them through the growing crowds, and as he approached them, neither the gamine, nor the young baron needed any instruction as to why he was searching them out.  
A group of policemen had been gathering at one of the corners of the market and both Jehan and Marius grasped the situation immediately.  
“We need to get him down there”, Jehan voiced the thought of both, and both pushed through the crowd of people, determinedly, to reach Enjolras and alert him of the danger.  
Eponine wanted no part in this. This reeked of trouble unending, and trouble was not something she had need for. She retreated again, to lean against one of the shabby walls of the surrounding houses and surveyed the situation.  
She had to give Enjolras credit that he seemed to have retained some remnant of knowledge of what was good for him, because at the tumult caused by Jehan and Marius, he very quickly realized what was going on. After a last, quick glance at the forming squadron, he jumped down from the makeshift stage and dove into the crowd, quickly reuniting with his friends while the policemen began closing in on the assembled crowd.  
Eponine watched them, worried. There were a hundred ways to leave the market, and she doubted that the police had closed off all of them, but she also doubted that the young, rich men were as proficient in the small and dark alleys of the city as she was. For a brief moment she considered stepping up to Marius and his friends to help them find a safe passage, but before she could even come to a conclusion, her attention was caught by something else in the crowd.  
A familiar face that it took a moment for her to place. Only when he turned around, grasping the situation around him with a single gaze – the police dissolving the assembly, people scattering and hiding everywhere, the three students making their escape to one of the less well-known exits of the place (good, but probably not good enough, concluded Eponine), she recognized the man she had seen a few days before in rue Plumet.  
While she was still trying to digest the information and to understand what to do with this particular thing, she realized, that he was, indeed, not randomly scattering with the crowd, but instead following the students, as they made their way off the place.  
Following them in a very determined, quick and decisive sort of way.  
Eponine decided that this did not bode well.  
She tried to call out to Marius, but it was hopeless against the shouting, against the chaos that had started to take the place in a deadly grip, and it was then, that she realized the glitter in the man’s hand, cruel, bright and fully unmistakeable.  
A knife.  
And this was what spurred her into action without thinking. There was no question, no doubt now, not even a single thought for her own safety. There was a man, and he was following Marius, a naked knife in his hand.  
The students were oblivious. Eponine broke into a run, pushing through the crowds mercilessly, all attempts at stealth abandoned. There was a man, and he was following Marius, and he had a knife in his hands that, as far as things go, he would probably use without hesitation. Fear sang in her veins, and she shouted, “Marius, Marius, take care!” and similar things that neither make sense, nor were heard over the general noise of the square.  
The man closed in. He was very good at trailing, moving through the crowds unhindered like that knife of his would through human flesh, and the knife flashed in his hand, mercilessly, and about to end Marius’ life in a quick flash of cruelty.  
But Eponine was a street rat, born and bred to the harsh world of St. Michel, and she fought as one, dirty, unexpected and without hesitation or reservation.  
She was not very strong, but she was fast and knew what she was doing, when she threw herself at the potential attacker. She used the full speed of her run to knock him off his feet, taking him by surprise with her assault from the sidelines, and after a dreadful moment of staggering, he finally fell to the floor.  
It was not the end to the story. The man was quick as a fox, and all Eponine managed was to pin him down for a moment, winded herself by the fall, but then a sharp pain flashed in her shoulder as he fought her, and then he was free again, hissing and spitting, his eyes breathing fire and pure hatred in turn.  
But then, Marius had realized what was going on, and the three students had turned to the man as well, who, all of a sudden, saw himself outnumbered. If there was any confirmation on his nature needed for Eponine, he gave it by the skill with which he managed to melt in with the crowd.  
Moments later, he was gone.


	4. A race through dark places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Les Amis and Éponine reach a desperately needed safe haven and Marius decides to be stupid

**Chapter 3: A race through dark places**  
 _“It’s the last time I’ll ever trust you.”_  
 _”Also the first.”_

She came to her feet quickly in the manner of a wild beast wounded, adrenaline pumping through her veins with ferocious intensity, blocking out all the pain with an overwhelming urge to run to safety.Dimly, she realized that Marius and his friends were crowding around her, ready to ask questions, ready to take action, but fear was governing her actions and all she managed to say was  
“We have to leave!”  
Marius looked, as if he were about to protest, while Jehan’s gaze was still full of horror, but it was Enjolras, who commanded, and Enjolras, who fully concurred with her, probably grasping the situation better than any of the others. Right now, there was no time for pain or medicine. First, they had to escape from the rally, find a safe haven. And then, then maybe it was time to curl down and ride the suffering out.  
“Then come”, Enjolras commanded and set himself into motion, doing what must be done without even looking back, and it was up to the other three to keep up with his quick, purposeful strides that easily found their way through the scattering crowds.  
Now, that she was in the middle of it, it was more difficult to estimate where the soldiers are, and Eponine looked around wildly, trying to decipher the chaotic situation.  
Before her Enjolras stopped, for a moment uncertain where to go, and Eponine, peering past him, could see the telltale blue-and-red at the end of the alley he had been heading towards. Soldiers were assembling at their intended escape route, blocking the path. For a moment, the young student looked around, doing what Eponine had tried just moments before, but they were losing time, and the guards closed in on them.  
Eponine turned towards Marius, who hovered at her side.  
“Follow me”, she said and, in an unconscious copy of Enjolras just before, strode along at an angle to their original path, crossing the crowds, slipping between a butcher’s stand and a woman selling crude linen –both showering her in hearty curses as she passed by and the students followed, in their hurry pushing some of the goods into the dirt of the market floor.  
Behind the stands, she went with the crowd of people, passing along the row of small shops and cheap taverns to stop at the entrance to one of them, opening the door and passing through.  
She was not the only one to use this escape, and in addition to the three students, two other visitors of the market slipped through, passing through a filthy guestroom into a filthier kitchen, that was located in the cellar a few steps down.  
Again, Eponine found herself showered in curses, this time by a cook more than a head taller than herself, wearing a threadbare apron and a grimace conspicuously bereft of teeth. She ignored him best as she could and turned around to see if the students had managed to keep up with her, but they were still there, all three of them.  
Marius first, his face clouded in concern. His eyes were glued to her shoulder, where her blouse was more and more clotted with blood coming from the wound that she had actually temporarily forgotten. Something in his gaze warmed her – genuine worry for her safety had to count for something, in the end – but there was no time to enjoy this… later, later maybe, but not now.  
Jehan still appeared to be dazed, but luckily reacted on all the right impulses, trailing after her like a lost puppy, while Enjolras brought up the rear, careful that no one fell back, mindful that they stayed close to one another.  
Eponine gave a grim, satisfied nod to herself. She was not very glad to have to show the students the escape route that they were taking, but she had had little choice. Marius, she wouldn’t have minded, but the rest of them was a different story, but she just couldn’t help coming with her and if this was the price to pay for Marius’ safety, it was a small price, despite everything. In the kitchen there was a trap door leading to a cellar, and climbing down the stairs, Eponine for the first time truly realized that she had been hurt, and badly so, because the fingers of her right hand were covered in blood and would not obey her command to cling to the steps of the ladder as they usually would.  
Yet she managed, and from the cellar – the trap door closing behind her with a final thunk – there was another door, leading to another vault, and then a subterranean alleyway, created long ago for lord knew which purpose, that lead to another cellar, which, after mounting some stairs, lead to the entrance hall of a house harboring several appartments where the poor and desolate resided.  
They passed through the front door unhindered, and there they were, standing in a small alley, a few streets away from the market, no police to be seen. The men that had unwillingly accompanied her small group scattered into all directions and left them in the relative silence of the side street.  
Eponine took a moment to catch her breath and regretted it in that very instant, because the white hot pain in her shoulder that had been dulled by fear and excitement, exploded the instant she stopped running and brought her to her knees, gasping for breath.  
“Ponine!” That was Marius, bending down to her in concern. Some part of her enjoyed it, seeing his face creased in concern, even through the veil of pain that was clouding her vision, but even though she would have trusted him as far as she was able to trust anyone, still she felt vulnerable, and scared, and trapped in the streets in daylight, not being able to defend herself.  
“Ponine, does it hurt?” Marius’ careful fingers tried to pry free the wound at her shoulder, careful, but still hurtful, and she let out a muffled scream in agony.  
“Marius, not here.” Enjolras’ voice was as clear, cold and cruel as the blade that had cut her. “Bring her to the café. We’ll have more time there. And give her your jacket. It will hide the blood and attract less attention.”  
Dazed, Eponine felt something warm and soft settling about her, placed carefully, yet enticing another moan from her as her shoulder shifted in response and another spike of pain shot through her.  
“Jehan.” It was not a question, but a command, and it roused the young poet to look at Enjolras, who continued as soon as he was certain to have the young man’s attention. “Go and find Joly. Bring him back to the café, he’s like to have his satchel with him anyway. I’ll try to get Combeferre from Place Notre dame, and we meet up at the Musain as quickly as we can. Go!”  
He did not lose any time in leaving, and apparently something in his voice galvanized the other ones into action as well. Eponine felt herself carefully pulled to her feet, and off they were, through the narrow streets of the quarter towards the Musain, their familiar haunt and refuge.  
Eponine stumbled along, leaning heavily on Marius’ arm, her senses clouded not only by the pain and the blood loss, that slowly started to take effect, but also by the scent of the jacket draped around her shoulders, clean and woolly and so very much him that it shook her to her very core.  
She was beyond caring if her passage was thought odd by curious onlookers, was beyond caring about the danger. There was Marius, and he was bringing her to safety, and for once, just once, she allowed herself to be weak.  
They entered the Musain through the back door that Eponine knew, but had never used up until now, and climbed up a set of stairs – no ladder, fortunately, because she was not sure whether she would have made it this time – and then she entered another brawl, strong hands were taking her, gently placing her on a hard surface – a table? - and the white-hot pain turned to a dulling red.  
Dimly, she was aware, that they were not alone. She made an effort to open her eyes and look around, remnants of the instincts of an animal on the run, and first saw Marius, crouched before her, directly at her side.  
Behind him, arms folded, face unreadable, was Enjolras, and that was indeed some surprise. To Notre Dame and back? He must have flown… or Marius and her progress had been incredibly slow. The third man, standing on her other side, bowed over her shoulder, she technically did not know by name, but judging from what had transpired earlier, she guessed that this must be the man called Combeferre, who had, quite obviously, some kind of medical education.  
His brow was creased, more in concentration than in concern, as he cut away parts of the fabric of her blouse – she was too weak to protest – and then brought up a bottle of something smelling sharp.  
“Drink this.”  
She obeyed, shuddering at the strong drink, but the alternative was worse.  
And so she mercifully passed out as he set the first stitches.

 

Sometime later, she woke to the sound of a discussion growing louder. At first, she felt disoriented, and could not place the voices – Patron-Minette having a discussion with her father? – but then, random images came tumbling back. The market. The knife. Being wounded.  
The sharp pain in her shoulder had dulled to a bearable ache, but her head hurt and she felt slightly hung over, while her awareness returned.  
Slowly, she tested her surroundings. She was lying on a hard surface, a table most likely, still covered in Marius’ jacket – shape and smell where only too clearly to be distinguished, and she was certainly not alone. She moved fingers, elbows, shoulders (quickly to regret it), knees and feet, only tiny movements to make herself aware of the state she was in, while she tried to decipher the discussion.  
“I’m not sure what happened.” That was Marius, sounding uneasy and unsure. “It all happened much too quickly.”  
“He was coming for us.” Jehan, his voice slightly panicked. Obviously, time had passed, but equally obviously, he had not yet stomached the shock of what had happened earlier that day.  
“An attack at one of you? This is a scandal!” Another voice, agitated and angry. “This is going much too far! Who do they think they are?” Something hard slammed on wood, and then a chair screeched, someone got up and took to pacing. “Injustice we knew, but this goes way beyond that. This is a crime, and in the open face of daylight!”  
“I think there is too little we still know about this.” Eponine recognized the voice, placing it to the young medical student called Combeferre, using the same calm tone he also had applied when talking to her. “This may have been everything from a direct assault on us to a St. Michel squabble that we have no knowledge of.”  
“Correct.” Enjolras sounded cool and composed. “Why don’t we ask her, seeing that she’s awake?”  
She bit back a curse and opened her eyes, her pretense at being asleep just having been rendered futile, and took in her surroundings.  
She was still in the back room of the café, having been placed on a table that was more sheltered, in a corner and away from direct view of the entrance.  
The group of students, that she had seen Marius with numerous times – or at least a significant part of them – was sitting together discussing, and one of them, Combeferre, rose at the signs of her being awake to step towards her. Eponine, not wanting to be caught helpless, lifted herself not without difficulty to a sitting position, ignoring the stabs of pain from her shoulder.  
Combeferre raised a hand in a sort of peace offering.  
“Easy, Mademoiselle”, he said, approaching her carefully. “You wouldn’t want the wound to break open again. How do you feel?”  
“I’m fine”, she bit back. She did not take well to being cuddled, and in addition, she felt ill at ease – her fake sleep discovered, in the company of society that she was not exactly used to, stabbed, in pain and still slightly intoxicated. Not the most appeasing of combinations, but Combeferre did not seem offended.  
“As a matter of fact that is not far from the truth”, he replied. “You will be soon, at least, I hope. Your wound is deep, but clean, and from what I can see, it has not hit any vital part of your body. You have lost quite a lot of blood, but with a bit of rest, this should be recovered. Given care, you will heal well, I think.”  
Eponine eyed his approach suspiciously, but he did not close in further on her, but instead leaned on the wall that her table was placed against, opening her view again to the rest of the room.  
The students were watching her with various mixtures of curiosity and interest, chief among them Enjolras, who had placed his chin on folded fingers and surveyed her with unwavering intensity, and Marius, whose brow was creased in concern.  
“I apologize for startling you, Mademoiselle.” Enjolras did not sound very sorry, rather, as if he was acting on a reflex, ingrained deeply into his behavior and Eponine did not react to it well. “What’s it to you?” she snapped, almost angrily, and this called forth a minuscule raise of his brow.  
“Considering the circumstances, I think it is highly likely that at least one of us owes you his life.” He gave her a small smile, and Eponine could not deny that it transformed his face to a certain extent, his easy charisma spreading effortlessly. “Eponine, it was? So I believe that at least thanks are in order. And maybe an apology for rudeness on my part.”  
His question about her name seemed to remind Marius of his manners, and the next half minute was a blur of names and introductions, and Eponine was distracted from the fact, that a bourgeois – a student, on top if it – had actually apologized for something that probably in his world passed for unacceptable behavior.  
Focused on Marius, she tried to remember the names of his friends, some of whom she knew by sight, some of whom were still alien to her. To her surprise, she was greeted with something resembling friendliness – which put her immediately on the edge.  
Out of the group of young faces, it was again Marius, that held her wandering gaze, Marius and his expression of regret and anguish, that tug a strange string within Eponine’s chest.  
“Ponine, I really don’t even know what to say in thanks to you”, he began, uncertainty coloring his voice. She allowed herself for a moment to bask in these words. Marius had gotten up and was now stepping closer to her. “If you hadn’t been there…” He shook his head in something that almost resembled an admittance of defeat. “Still, we are wondering what actually happened.”  
She had to admit, that this was the logical question at hand. Yet, Eponine was used to shroud her paths and ways in secret and mystery, and for a moment, she was at loss as to how she should convey the story. Quickly, she passed through what she knew, and what she had seen, but she found no danger in telling them the truth and so that was what she did.  
“I saw the guy following you through the crowd. I wasn’t sure which of you, but I saw the knife. And then I pushed him down and got a piece of metal in my shoulder for my trouble.”  
“That was very brave.” Enjolras again. Eponine was looking at his face for signs of mockery, disturbingly finding none. She decided for a shrug she immediately regretted, because pain shot along her arm and into her chest, and she winced.  
“Did you know that man?” asked Feuilly, and again, Eponine hesitated and finally opted for truth.  
“I don’t know him, no. But I’ve seen him before. He was tailing you.”  
She nodded to Marius, who immediately shook his head.  
“Me? When? Why didn’t you tell me?”  
“When you were at Rue Plumet, two days ago”, she replied. “I thought not much of it at that time. But he passed you twice, and I had a feeling he was watching you.”  
Marius paled visibly and closed the distance between him and her in two quick steps.  
“Are you certain that was him?” he asked, placing his hands on her shoulders, and she utter a small scream, part in surprise, part in pain, but he did not even wait for the answer to come. “Good god… Cosette!” He released her and stepped back, a trifle uncertainly. “I need to make sure that…”, his voice was shaking and he gave a last glance around the room. “… I apologize, comrades, I need to go.”  
And off he was, with steps as quick as thunder, and Eponine, still sitting on the table and watching his retreating figure, needed all that was within her to fight back tears of humiliation, pain and heartbreak.


	5. Shadows lurking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the scope of things gets bigger and Éponine cannot follow Marius as she wants to

**Chapter 4: Shadows lurking**   
_“’Sure’ is for people with nothing on the line. You and me, we just get on with it.”_

For a few moments, the assembly in the back room of the Café Musain was stunned into silence. Combeferre, who had been on the verge of asking something, let his hand sink back to his side as his gaze followed their vanishing comrade and shook his head slowly.  
Eponine had fallen silent, all of a sudden, and it seemed to Enjolras, as if she were, without a single movement, retreating into the shadows from which she had come, shrinking and coiling into herself without moving so much as a finger. She was vibrating with tension, and the revelation that struck him at seeing this scene explained in detailed and unmerciful clarity, why Eponine today had acted the way she did on the market.  
Love made fools of the brightest of minds. Even if in this peculiar venture, something good may have come out of it as well.  
Enjolras could not decide whether he was annoyed at Marius’ behavior, or whether it did not really matter – for clearly, the events of the day had changed the perimeters they had up to now been operating in. The attack on one of their number – it was ultimately insignificant, whether the attack had been directed at Jehan, Marius or himself, for the intention remained the same – represented a significant escalation. Before, there had of course been arrests, questions, the usual oppressions of a regime taking its people as a hostage, but it had all seemed harmless then, almost a game.  
He had deluded himself into believing, that they were playing an explicit match of hide-and-seek, of whispers in the night and make-believe during the day, and that they alone were in the position to turn that game into a deadly war, to decide when the time for play was done and the time for blood had come.  
Today, if nothing else, showed that he had been wrong.  
And yet, Enjolras was not fully dismayed at this revelation. His personal – and finally insignificant – fears aside, this escalation showed all the more, that someone inside the government they sought to overthrow had finally begun to take them seriously. Things were coming into motion, and that, ultimately, was a good thing.  
It might be put to good use, he quickly reflected, this fear that apparently had risen, and that spurred rash actions, that – as if he still needed proof, that what he was doing was right and just – did not work out as planned. Just a few moments of thought, an adaption of strategy, and this whole event might even turn out to their advantage, in the end.  
“Ahem…”, Feuilly broke the silence with an almost respectful cough. “Is that clever…?”  
“What do you mean?” Joly inquired, turning his head towards the fan maker who stared after Marius with a deepening frown.  
“Him running off alone, while there has just been an attack on his life?”  
“Dammit!” The exclamation showed clearly, that this connection had not been aware to Eponine, as well, but the implications of this sudden revelations spurred her into immediate action. With a speed, that surprised both him and Combeferre, who was standing much closer to her, she pushed herself up the table and onto her feet.  
All things considered, she managed three steps towards the door, before her step faltered, and she stumbled.  
She would have almost fallen, but even hurt, deprived and weakened, her reflexes were lightning quick, and she grabbed at what she could take hold of, first the chair – which slipped – then a table – providing a much sturdier handhold already – and finally one of the wood colums that supported the roof of the back room, and the last one did the trick. Panting, she tried to regain her footing.  
“Easy”, Combeferre soothed. His voice was sober and calm, bereft of the pity Enjolras knew he would be feeling, and he stepped closer to the young woman. “You are far from recovered.”  
“I am fine”, she hissed, her eyes breathing fire, and for a fickle moment, she reminded Enjolras of a magnificent animal, trapped, but still proud.  
Combeferre raised his hands, again in a peace offering, and, the moment gone, Enjolras stepped in. These were times of panic, and times of panic were his. He quickly looked around in the room, estimating the virtues of those present, and made a decision.  
“But still weakened”, Enjolras added soberly, “and therefore probably endangering both yourself and Marius by throwing yourself headfirst into this situation. And yet, you are correct, something needs to be done, and immediately.  
“Feuilly, Lesgles, Joly.” He looked at the three comrades in turn. “Would you follow him? See, that he comes to no harm?” The most street-wise working man, the doctor-in-training, and Lesgles, to temper enthusiasm with sense. “They went into direction of… Rue Plumet?” The last was directed as a question to Eponine, who, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded reluctantly. “Rue Plumet it is, then.”  
“But”, she began again, only to be cut short by Courfeyrac. He was still lounging comfortably in his chair, but his eyes were clear and earnest.  
“We all worry”, he said. “Look. We’re his friends, too, and yes, we all worry. But, honestly, you are not really in a condition to follow him right now, are you?” She glared at him, but did not contradict him, which was probably a good first step. “That would make one more person to watch, and that certainly will not enhance the probability of success, don’t you think.”  
“You don’t need to watch me”, Eponine replied, still suspicious and angry, but still clinging to the column and not readying herself to run off with Feuilly and the others.  
“Oh… but we do.” That was Jehan speaking up, now, which in itself was an unusual feat. His eyes were not quite meeting her gaze, but he was obviously making an effort of it, the inevitable blushes on his cheeks already forming. “We owe you our life, you see? Marius, Enjolras and myself. What kind of gratitude would this be, to let you run into danger right now?”  
Enjolras internally winced at the statement. After all, it was Marius Pontmercy, who had rushed out of the room a few minutes earlier, but he chose not to comment on it. Best not make an unpleasant situation even worse.  
“Gratitude.” Eponine retorted, drily.  
“Yes, Gratitude. Is that so hard to believe?” Courfeyrac shook his head. “Come on, Mademoiselle. Indulge us. How about we order some food and get you back to your feet? Medics prescription.” He looked to Combeferre, who nodded, with only a hint of a smile on his face. “See?”  
“We’ll bring him back safe and sound”, Feuilly added. “Don’t you worry, Mademoiselle.”  
She eyed him suspiciously, tense and mistrusting. And yet. She had not loosened her grip on her precarious handhold, and the quick fluttering of her lashes showed only too clearly, that she was still battling unconsciousness.  
“All right”, she answered, softly, her voice betraying what this admittance cost her. “All right.”  
And yet, as she watched them go, and as she then started her careful movement towards the table, in her eyes there were a thousand words of misery that she would never say.

Gavroche raced into the front door of the café, not minding either the frowns of the owners nor the curious looks from some of the current customers. May they think what they will – the patron of the Musain usually took care anyhow, that the customers of his café did not bother those overly, who made its backroom their customary haunt, and his news was far too important to be delayed. He had no time to put up with appearances.  
He passed through the corridor and skittered into the back room, only narrowly coming to a halt before he crushed into the nearest chair with full speed.  
A small crowd sat there, assembled around a tray of bread and cheese and a few carafes of wine. They had been talking before, but apparently were not lost in one of their heated – and mostly incomprehensible – discussions, and all speech stopped, when he entered the room.  
“Hello, little one”, he was greeted by Courfeyrac, who gave him a friendly smile, and Gavroche could not shake the feeling of having come home. The elephant was probably as much a house as he would have, but his home, his true home was here in the Musain, with his friends. Yet, this was definitely not the hour of sentimentality.  
With Courfeyrac, there was Enjolras – naturally -, Combeferre and Jehan. The fifth person of the assembly, however, let Gavroche freeze in his tracks for the moment.  
Because sitting on a chair, looking slightly uncomfortable, worried and out of place, her left arm bound to her body in a tight sling and her shoulder bandaged, sat his sister Eponine, holding a piece of bread with her good hand.  
She stared at him, almost as surprised as he was, but after a split second’s surprise pressed her lips together in a silent sign – don’t you dare tell – and Gavroche gave a minuscule nod. No need to complicate things. Dealing with Eponine was difficult enough as it was, and there was time to sort out the situation later.  
“I got news for ya”, he therefore announced, shifting his focus back to the rest of the friends and was greeted with a smile from Combeferre.  
“No doubt”, he replied. “Let hear.”  
Gavroche waited a moment for silence to fall, before he made his announcement.  
“Marcel Devereux”, he explained, “is dead.”  
“What?!” The reaction was as expected, a mixture of horror and surprise. Marcel Devereux was, as far as hierarchies went, the leader of a circle similar to that of the friends of the ABC, in Faubourg St. Antoine. He was a young carpenter – unsurprising, given the quarter he lived in – and had loose contacts mainly to Feuilly, but was known in person by most of those present, and in name by all.  
Hence, the reaction.  
“Come in, Gavroche”, Courfeyrac invited, both with words and a wave of his hand. “And tell us what happened.”  
Gavroche, though certainly not needing the invitation, followed and grabbed up a chair of his own.  
“Difficult to say”, he reported, dangling his legs as he enjoyed the attention of all present. “Didn’t do no big questioning, but came straight here after I heard it from Jean. Thought you’d want to know right away. But word has it, ‘twas some sort of knife attack or summat like.”  
“A… knife attack.”  
It was definitely not often that Enjolras needed repeating of something that had been said. Gavroche could not help rubbing his nose in it.  
“Yeah, you know. Pointy things, you stick it in someone else, they bleed, and such.”  
“We’ve had one of those as well”, Courfeyrac commented and gave a pointed look to Eponine. “Coming almost as much as a surprise as that bit of news of yours. If not for Eponine here, we would likely be a leader short as well.”  
Gavroche felt an unexpected surge of gratitude towards his sister, immediately followed by confusion. While Eponine was not Azelma – and certainly not her mother or father – throwing herself into harm’s way for someone she barely knew, was not exactly in her character.  
But then… if it involved Pontmercy… that would be a different story.  
“What happened?” he asked, curiously, and Enjolras raised his head to Eponine.  
“I think, Mademoiselle, this is entirely your story.”  
And Gavroche could barely keep from smirking, because he knew how much she’d hate that.

And just like that, they were sitting around the table. Four students, well-dressed and proper, a gamine in a dress that had passed its prime probably a few years ago, and her unexpectedly reappearing young brother, dirty, but cheerful, digging in at the bread and cheese that had been placed on the table, as if he might never eat again.  
Which, sadly, was probably not so far from the truth.  
Even though her little brother seemed to be fending for himself pretty well since he had been on his own, there was still a part of her that worried for him.  
Eponine herself tried to be more restrictive with respect to the food. Of course she was hungry and weak, and the opportunity at a free meal should never be turned down, but it would not do to appear in front of the students like a wild animal, starved and completely ungroomed, and therefore she made an effort to go slowly, go easy, and let Combeferre press for her to drink and eat more to account for the blood loss.  
In the end, it was all the same.  
And between bites, she recounted the story of the man she had seen, first at Rue Plumet, and then later at the market, attacking Marius (or Enjolras or Jehan), and her own involvement in it.  
“Blimey”, Gavroche said, when she’d ended. “You’re a hero.”  
“She is.” Jehan had stayed mostly out of the conversation, and also now he was not directly looking at her, but at some detail of the table, his eyes blinking a trifle too quickly in embarrassment. “She surely is.”  
Eponine was not sure what to make of that statement. True, she had thrown herself into the line of fire, but for Marius, and Marius alone. And yet, he was the one who seemed to think least of it.  
She pressed her lips together and willed the thought away.  
“Whad’d that guy look like?” Gavroche asked, his mouth full of bread.  
“Normal”, Eponine started, but then she closed her eyes to conjure up a picture of the man she had encountered. That was one of the things she had always been good at. Recognize guests in the inn… recognize people you’ve worked with and people you tricked. Police officers you already had a run-in with, people you’ve crossed, people you’ve helped.  
It would not do well to quickly forget a face.  
And so the features of the man came to her fairly easily.  
“His hair was black”, she began, thoughtfully. “Short, closely cut. Receding at the temples, but not too far yet. Fairly tall, but no giant, slender, more lithe than strong. A gaunt face, deep lines, sunken cheeks. He may be twenty-five, or forty-five, depending on the life he’s had. A prominent nose, no hook, but slightly curved. Lines around his mouth and along his cheeks. Work-rough hands.” That last detail brought back unpleasant memories of him trying to grab her to get a clearer stab at her, and so she stopped her description and opened her eyes again only to find the four friends watching her curiously.  
“Impressive memory”, Enjolras commented, and nodded a respectful salute of which she was not sure if it was meant as mockery or not.  
For the sake of the peace of the moment she chose to disregard it.  
“Next time someone tries to stab you, you’ll probably also fairly clearly remember that man”, she commented instead, not without sarcasm but without menace.  
“Unless you’re there to step in”, added Gavroche grinning. “But anyhow, I’ve seen that guy.”  
“You have?” inquired Combeferre, and the boy nodded eagerly.  
“At the café, a couple ‘o days back. He was just leaving. Didn’t think much of it at that time.”  
“Well, that concludes it then!” Courfeyrac slammed his hand on the table. “Someone – and a few people come to mind first and foremost – has been watching us. Spying on us. And is now trying to kill us. This is atrocious!”  
“It’s not so wholly unexpected as that, is it?” Combeferre asked.  
“Indeed not”, confirmed Enjolras. “And if we use this well, it may even be to our advantage. It is at least a sign that they are starting to take us seriously, us, our associates and those that we inspire. It is the first sign of them being afraid.”  
There were preciously few people, Eponine thought, who would rejoice at an assassination attempt. But for the moment, everything that she might have to say about this, would probably not sit well with the group she was currently with, and therefore she held her tongue and followed Combeferre’s advice of eating and drinking some more.  
“This is not the case of rallying another dozen supporters for our cause, Enjolras”, Courfeyrac contradicted, shaking his head. “I’m trying to point out that you might be killed, even before we get to do something.”  
“If I die, then someone else will take up the cause, Courfeyrac. I am nothing but a vessel. The spirit may find other hosts, too, and it will. It is much too powerful to be quenched thus. It lives in all of us.”  
“Well, then we’d better find out who did that, right?”  
Gavroche had not lost his sense for the practical and looked around between the students, as if he was talking about the easiest thing in the world.  
“Technically, yes.” Combeferre thoughtfully put his fingers together. “Although, young friend, I fear that this may be easier said than done.”


	6. The streets of Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which many panicked students run through the streets of Paris on many errands and an Inspector realizes the downsides of his calling

**Chapter 5: The streets of Paris**   
_“The avalanche has already started. It is too late for the pebbles to vote”_

A sorry mess.  
Inspector Javert motionlessly stared down at the bodies that were still lying in the street, miraculously untouched by the crowd that had apparently formed directly after the incident, and was currently disbanded by the policemen he had fortunately thought to bring with him.  
A sorry, sorry mess.  
There was not much to be said about the manner of death of the young men lying in front of him. The immense puddle of blood, originating from the blonde’s neck, but spreading out over several meters of dirty pavement, relieved Javert of the necessity to turn him around to find a clear cut over the throat of the man, killing him in instants.  
The other one had been less fortunate. He lay curled up on the floor, the stomach wound had still killed him relatively quickly – stomach wounds were nasty things that could lead up to days of suffering, if the victim was unlucky – but there obviously had been pain and enough time for the young man to realize, what was going on.  
Unfortunately, he had perished before Javert arrived, therefore robbing him of the possibility to ask the youth directly about the occurrences in this place.  
Pity. But there were other ways.  
With a sigh, the inspector crouched down beside the dark-haired youth and fully turned him to his back. The dead weight did not resist, and a face was revealed, that still carried the remnants of a life barely begun, uplifted nose, plump lips, all in all, the face of a boy, not a man.  
And yet, the face was well known to the inspector, and he did not need to look for any telltale documents to know that he was looking at Jacques Virille, a young artist in the trade of marble statues, fabled both for his – considering his youth – remarkable skill at the carving of religious figurines and his tendency towards association with those, that sought to overthrow public order and justice.  
A young life wasted, alas.  
And then, the other one would most probably be Antoine, his younger brother, a journeyman still, but in the same trade, both that according to the law and that going against it.  
In short – two troublemakers.  
Now Javert would have – in general – not been sorry about the removal of individuals of that kind from Paris, however, murder in broad daylight on the Barriere du Maine was quite a different story. And – alas- not one that could go ignored by the Paris police.  
Which brought Javert into the picture.  
Slowly, he got up again, circling the two dead with slow, deliberate steps, taking in the scene.  
And then, he turned to question the witnesses.  
Two hours later, nursing a considerable headache, Javert had gathered the information that was to be had at this place, with a mixture of threat and firm words, precise questions and vague suggestions. It was not much.  
There had been a single attacker, and although the descriptions of the man varied, there were some consistencies to be found.  
He had been still young – on the short side of twenty five, maybe, with a youthful, fresh air about him. Blonde, close-cut hair, rosy cheeks. Dressed to match the quarter. And reasonably skilled in the dirty work of butchering. None of those present had even seen him flinch during his deeds.  
The queer thing about this story was that either he had met up with a number of extremely convincing liars, or this young man had gone mostly unnoticed up to now. There was one – a shopkeeper with a stand not far away from the place of the incident – that claimed to remember having seen him before, and in the same place, but apart from this, Javert was currently at loss as to who the attackers might be.  
Additionally, the description of the man did not fit any of his usual suspects. This had been no ordinary crime, no squabble over goods.  
This had been an assassination.  
And as little sympathy as he had for the young men and their ambitions, they had not wronged enough in the face of the law to earn them what they were facing now – at least nothing had been proven yet. Given time, of course, they would have certainly reached a level of wickedness that would have made these killings necessary, but the hand of violence belonged to guard and police – and not to anyone else.  
Given the fact, that the attacker was most probably neither, this crime fell into the regime of the police. And brought him into the position to pursue a man, who probably had ultimately done the right thing in the wrong moment.  
A sorry mess, indeed.

Marius lost no time in hurrying towards the house in Rue Plumet. Fear for the safety of his precious star was speeding his steps, and the path from the Musain to the home of his beloved had been deeply ingrained into his memory – he would have found it with his eyes closed.  
The morning had been long past, given way to an afternoon that was now at its prime, and sand had run through the hourglass since the attack in the morning.  
He could only hope that he was not too late.  
He had already passed the Jardin du Luxembourg, ignoring the curious looks from onlookers, who had frowned at the slightly disheveled young man, whose jacket still bore dark stains on the shoulder, and who almost ran through the park, not caring for appearances or propriety.  
The Jardin had been well populated with both students and families on their outings during a fine end-of-may afternoon, but now that he had left it, streets were becoming emptier, as he entered a wealthier neighborhood, where tenements made way for single houses, surrounded by small grounds.  
Number 55 was hidden behind a well-cared, almost enchanted looking garden, enclosed by a fence and gate that reached about twice Marius’ height. Now, in May, many of the flowers were in full bloom, rich and beautiful, an Eden of many colors and scents.  
All seamed peaceful and silent in the warm sun.  
Marius’ heart was beating erratically in his chest. At first glance, everything seemed to be alright, no signs of intrusion were apparent. And still…  
Who knew, what the man he had only very briefly seen this morning was capable of.  
He clung to the iron ornaments, catching his breath, and looked into the maze of green and flowers.  
Somewhere behind a hedge, something was moving. He caught a glimpse of a white-and-green dress, of hair like sunshine in spring, the quiet, careful movements of Cosette tending to the various flowers of the garden.  
Marius closed his eyes in relief, placing his head for a moment against the cool iron, soothing his heated head, taking a few deep breaths.  
And then: “Cosette!”  
He kept his voice soft – it would not do for them to be discovered by Monsieur Fauchelevent, not now, not yet, but his words reached the young lady none the less, and the shuffling turned towards him, almost soundlessly, as the angel made its way to the gate.  
The silence in Rue Plumet after the brawl of the market, the excitement of the Musain and the lively atmosphere of the Jardin du Luxembourg was tangible.  
But it was only when Cosette finally came into view, still half hidden by the plants around, her eyes widening and a smile appearing at the sight of him, that he realized this silence was also dangerous.  
A notion that he did not fully understand – an expected hue, a movement at the corner of his eye - made him turn his head.  
And saw a lone figure walking towards him from the next crossing, unhurried, but determined. Brief as his encounter had been, he recognized the face.  
Marius paled and froze for a moment.  
“Good lord in heaven”, he murmured, horror-stricken, and unconsciously recoiled towards the iron gate.  
There was no smile on the man’s face. His features were exactly as he remembered them, gaunt, lined, worn, but not yet old, a grim expression on his face. The eyes, firmly fixed on his target, were dark and cold, an icy determination that allowed neither question nor protest. And with an almost casual movement, he removed a pistol from his jacket.  
“Marius… what’s going on?” Cosette sounded worried, and rightfully so, because the man quickened his step, but the young baron was totally at loss as to what to say. Frozen in fright, he stared at his doom in form of the approaching assassin.  
“I…”, he shook his head to clear his hectic thoughts. He needed to run, and quickly, “I’m sorry, I …”  
His gaze darted around wildly, in search of a shelter.  
“But Marius…”, Cosette protested, still confused, and followed his gaze to the end of the street, and that was when she understood the situation.  
Her reaction was a blood-curdling scream that resounded through the street, clear and loud and unmistakable. It came at the same time as the shot.  
Marius, in an instinct, had turned towards the pillars that framed the gate of the Fauchelevent garden in a quick and sudden movement, and it was thus, that the shot missed its goal, grazing only his biceps, pain like fire flaring up his arm, unpleasant, but in the end not dangerous.  
The man threw a gaze – almost annoyed – at his now useless pistol and replaced it into his jacket. Instead, he shrugged out of his sleeve a knife that in a long studied movement dropped into his hand. Then he broke into a run.  
Marius quickly considered his options.  
He could accept the fight - not the cleverest of ideas given the man was armed and he was not. He could try to run into the opposite direction – more promising, but the speed that the man showed, made this endeavor risky at the least. Which left the Fauchelevent garden. It was not really a choice, all things considered.  
Of course, the door was locked.  
Cosette deathly pale in fright, but still with him at the gate, understanding what he was up to, shook her head, blond curls bobbing miserably.  
“I don’t have a key, it’s in the house…”, she measured the distance between the approaching man and the fence, which rendered going to fetch it a fairly futile gesture.  
Thus, bereft of all options, Marius Pontmercy began climbing the iron fence of the Fauchelevent residence, while Cosette stepped back, wide-eyed, helplessly watching the scenery before her.  
It was a close call. But finally, Marius jumped down from the lofty heights of the top of the gate into the garden, tumbled and came back to his feet, before the man crushed into the gates.  
For an instant, the situation seemed to freeze, a moment of overall hesitation, as the opponents stared at one another from different sides of the gate – Marius in a garden that he had no business being in, and the attacker, the knife barely visible in the sleeve of his jacket, measuring the height of the fence to judge, whether he should follow or rather reload his pistol.  
Cosette stood, paralyzed in horror.  
And then, noises from deeper in the garden heralded the arrival of another player in this game.  
All three whirled around to the source of the sound, only to see a man emerging from the bushes that Marius knew to be the father of Cosette, Monsieur Fauchelevent.  
The student was surprised at seeing the old and slightly plump man move so quickly, but he had the speed and ferociousness of a bear roused and rushed towards the fence with a booming:  
“What is going on here?”  
None of the three were in the position – or willing – to issue an explanation, but Cosette, apparently drawing on reflexes acquired during long years of habit, stepped behind her father’s broad back, hoping for protection.  
Fauchelevent’s gaze, however, was captivated by the attacker, and a kaleidoscope of emotions chased over his face, too quickly to decipher, to manifold to understand.  
However, surprise was not chief among them.  
And also on the attacker’s features, there was a strange notion – remembrance? Fear? – that Marius could not quite place, but the moment was gone all too soon, because the man in front of the gate, estimating his chances, took flight once more and vanished down the street in a blur of quick steps and flying coats.  
Fauchelevent took a few calming breaths, his fists curling and uncurling restlessly, as he stared after the man, vibrating with tension and anger. Marius did not dare to move a finger at the sight of these emotions unleashed from the usually calm and placid man he had observed in the Jardin du Luxembourg.  
And then, Cosette’s father turned on his uninvited visitor. His eyes were eerily calm.  
“Explain yourself.”

Marc Lamarin ran. The cartography of the not-quite-yet familiar city had him confused as to where exactly he was going, but the general direction of heading eastward seemed to hold true, and as long as this was, he could not be fully in the wrong. His breath was coming in short gasps, his heart was hammering against his chest, and from time to time, he took a quick look over his shoulder, but it seemed, that no one was following him for the moment.  
Still, he did not dare to slow down.  
He wondered where his friends where. They had all scattered when it happened, taking off into different directions in something resembling panic, and he did not know if the blood on his hands was his, or Jacques’, or someone else’s. All he knew was that it was there.  
He had panicked, when it had happened. Nothing at home could have prepared him for these few weeks that he had now spent in Paris, since starting his studies of the law. He had gone from a green boy in an unfamiliar city to a student finding new friends both from home and Paris, to a member of a secret organization to a boy in the middle of a bloody fight in literally a manner of weeks. He felt, as if he had ascended, higher and higher, only to realize now, that he had lost all ground under his feet, and would fall, deep and hard.  
And so he ran. He was not sure, how long he could keep up this pace, but he was sure on the direction he was going. Given the circumstances, there was only one place to turn. The Friends of the ABC had to know what had transpired, and the best place to reach them would be the Café Musain, which, again, would be eastward from Issy, where he had left of. With Jacques unaccounted for and Joseph out of town, hopefully Enjolras at least would know, what to do.  
Hence the direction.  
He had reached a wealthier neighborhood – vaguely he thought he could not be so far from the quartier St. Michel any more - when his strength finally deserted him. The streets were not very populated, the occasional passer-by throwing him a curious – at times disapproving – look but leaving him alone, which was a grace in itself.  
Until he reached another crossing and almost crashed into three young men, who were pursuing whatever path they were taking with equal speed and fervor.  
He skittered to a halt, dodged, and murmured an apology, even before his eyes had had the opportunity to register, whom he had almost run over.  
Out of the three, only one was known to him, but that in itself inspired a relief so great, that he might have wept.  
“Lesgles!” he called. “Wait!”  
The man who had not allowed his step to be slowed much by the almost crash, stopped and whirled around, only quickly followed by his two comrades.  
“Lamarin”, Lesgles acknowledged, slightly out of breath. “I’m sorry, I will have to speak to you some other time. I have to…”  
“There has been an attack on us!” Lamarin burst out. “I don’t know if Jacques has been killed, but he has certainly been wounded. And now the Cougourde is scattered over the city, everyone took off in a different direction. I have no idea where the others are, but…”  
“Another one?”  
That comment came from one of Lesgle’s fellows, a young man with round spectacles, pale complexion and sandy hair. His eyes were wide in fright.  
Lesgle took a deep breath.  
“No time now. You best run up to the Musain and tell Combeferre and Enjolras, what has transpired. We… no”, he interrupted himself. “Best you come with us. We retrieve our lovesick comrade – alive hopefully - and then we all go back to the Musain and regroup. Strength is in numbers, so come.”  
Marc Lamarin complied, only too glad that he was relieved of the decision..  
Given what he had just seen, he would like nothing less than be left to roam the streets of Paris on his own.


	7. Stolen moments of calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Marius appreciates the company of Cosette and does not quite know what to make of her father

**Chapter 6: Stolen moments of calm**   
_“Only those, whose lives are brief, can imagine that love is eternal”_

Marius Pontmercy had never been one to wage a war with words. His upbringing, his learning, his aspired profession – the law – required a certain proficiency with the finer nuances of speeches and rhetoric, and he had complied to it, learning as much as he could and applying it wherever opportunity presented itself.  
And yet, at times, he felt himself fully at loss as to how to convey in words, what he wanted to express, as if his ability for catching speech were linked to certain, well-trained situations such as social calls or university work. Times of panic, however, were a completely different thing.  
Despite his initial question, Fauchelevent had not immediately given him the opportunity to explain himself. While the presumed attacker had left the street before the house, there was no telling where he had gone, or whether the immediate danger was over.  
And thus, it was only when they had entered the mansion, barred the door, made sure, that no one would enter by either front or back door or window, and retreated to a room in the rear part of the house, that had no direct view to the street, that Marius was given another chance at conversing with the father of the woman, that had quickly become what was left of his life.  
While Fauchelevent saw to the barring of the house, Cosette tended to the wound on Marius’ arm.  
For a brief instant, everything was calm. And Marius, all of a sudden, became aware of the situation he was in. Sitting in a small salon, safe from any attempts on his life for now, he was alone with Cosette, and silence stood between them quivering like a frightened animal waiting to run.  
“I…”, Cosette began, softly, uncertainly, not meeting his eye. “Should I take… care of the wound?”  
She was twisting a linen bandage in her hand, outward sign of her uncertainty, and Marius hesitated for a moment, caught between poles. The remnants of the shot were pounding uncomfortably, but not unbearably so, but on the other hand, to have it soothed… to have it soothed by her… was almost too good to turn down. And yet, he would not want to impose, would not want to think him weak.  
Torn, he gazed at his beloved, who chose this very instant to throw a quick glance herself, and for the fraction of a heartbeat, Marius could see the same notion warring in her eyes. And felt unable to look away. Seconds passed, as her blue eyes held his, in a flash of eternity that was a moment out of time and space, a stolen gem in the whirlwind he was caught in.  
The world in her eyes belied a life full of promise – if he could only believe in it.  
Softly, wordlessly, he nodded. He would not have trusted his voice in this moment and if his life depended on it.  
He could see her swallow, hard, before she stepped up to him, carefully going to her knees beside the chair that he sat in. From within the linen bandage, she produced small scissors that in a previous life probably had been used for sewing purposes.  
“I will just…”, she began, uncertainly, “cut… the cloth a bit…”  
The touch of her fingers on his arm was like the kiss of a feather, light and tender, and yet, the warmth of her fingers seemed to burn through his light shirt, seemed cool and hot at the same time, soothing unsettling in equal measures.  
He held his breath and her fingers were trembling.  
And yet, she was very skillful, as she freed the wound from the torn remnants of the cloth around, cutting carefully, hardly touching his skin, and when she removed fabric from the open part itself, she was so very tender, that he hardly could feel the pain.  
“I hope, I’m not…”, she began, and he answered, “No!” in a rush of breath before she could even finish the question, his heart beating in his throat, only enhancing his nervousness. She looked up at this, slightly quizzically, a tiny frown appearing on her alabaster forehead, and he continued, much softer, though not much more composed, “No… not at all. Thank you…”  
She smiled nervously and lowered her eyes again to watch what she was doing, finished her work quickly and methodically, in a silence he did not feel like breaking, because he feared it would chase the wonder away that they were sharing.  
“Hold your arm like this…”, she said, a breathless eternity later, when she was satisfied with what she had done, moving her own, slender arm slightly away from her body, and he complied, allowing her to start wrapping a bandage around his arm. In the silence of the room, he could feel the warmth radiating from her, as she snaked her arms around his wounded one to move the bandage around, and around, and around, and his skin was itching with the closeness of her.  
And then she was finished, just when they heard the heavy steps of her father on the staircase, and she got up quickly to sit on her own chair, half across the room, gaze lowered again.  
Marius had only very few moments to compose himself, before Fauchelevent entered the room again, throwing a suspicious gaze to him, before seating himself between Marius and Cosette.  
“Well.” He said.  
“Monsieur, I…”, Marius started, without even having an inclination on how on earth he should finish that sentence, but Fauchelevent interrupted him, squinted and frowned.  
“I know your face”, he said. “From the Jardin du Luxembourg. Don’t I?”  
Marius could only nod, mutely.  
“You have been watching us.” Whatever Fauchelevent’s statement before had been, this definitely was no question, and the tone that accompanied it, was dangerous. And again, Marius nodded. There was no use lying, and any attempt at this would probably make a difficult situation much worse.  
“Monsieur”, he began again, struggling for some sense of coherency. “I apologize for thus intruding on you, but…”  
“I let him in, Papa.”  
Cosette had found her voice, together with her courage, at the most convenient moment, and this caused her father to whirl around to her.  
“You did what?” He shook his head, as if he had heard something, that was fully and utterly unbelievable to him, and there was a certain amount of outrage in his voice.  
Cosette almost flinched, but she held her ground and nodded, looking to the young student with kind eyes.  
“Yes”, she said, much more softly, so much more fondly. “I did.” There was a world in her voice, an implication beyond what she was actually saying, that was visible to him, but hopefully lost on her father. He swallowed thickly, as his heart took up a new, erratic beat. And his voice, as he continued, was not quite as steady as he would have it.  
“The decision to come here and the decision to enter your property was mine and mine alone.” Marius would not let Cosette take the blame for his actions, however well-meant her words were. “And I have a great fear, that this decision was wrong. For this, I can only apologize in the most profound manner.”  
“Hm”, Fauchelevent replied, noncommittally. “How so?”  
Marius felt himself waver under the scrutiny of the one man he certainly had no intention of antagonizing. However, it was obviously too late for that. He should probably count himself lucky, that the man was willing to hear him out, at least.  
“My name, to start with, is Marius Pontmercy”, he began. “I… this morning, some friends of mine and myself, we have been attacked by a person unknown to us, and it is only by chance, that none of us were wounded… none of us three at least…” He pointedly tried not to look towards Cosette, whose eyes had rounded in fear at this start of his tale. “In the aftermath of this incident”, he continued, hesitating for only a tiny moment, “a friend of mine mentioned, that this man… had been seen before, exactly in front of this house. I was worried, and therefore decided to come here to see, if he has wrought any more damage than he already had. I fear however, that in the end I have led him here, for which I apologize. Profoundly.”  
For a brief moment, thoughts of Eponine and her brave deed crossed his mind. There was really no telling, whether he would be even alive without her, and later, when this affair was sorted out, he would have to think of an adequate gesture towards her – but this was neither the time nor the place.  
Fauchelevent’s face was hard and unreadable.  
“Much as your attempt at warning us, and also the apology are appreciated”, he said, “it raises one or two questions, that you have skillfully avoided, Monsieur. But I cannot let you off the hook so easily. So, Marius Pontmercy, would you mind telling me how it came to pass that you have a friend who watches this particular house? And, while you are explaining that, would you also tell me what this house and its inhabitants are to you anyway?”  
Marius swallowed, hard. That was indeed the question of it all. The answer would be so easy. It would explain his panicky and hectic flight to this place, would explain the watching, the worry, even his presence here and Cosette’s notion of allowing him into the garden – which technically she had not even done – but could he really say this now already?  
The odds were not in his favor. Even in the brightest light, he was currently a poor student – not penniless, but not very far from it as well – involved up to his neck in activities, that would, within the shortest of timeframes, either overthrow the government or – may god prevent this – bring them all into prison or beyond, and he had just led an assassin of sorts to the home of his beloved, be it with the best intentions.  
All things considered, he could not bring the words over his lips.  
Cosette, however, had no such reservations.  
“I love him”, she said, so very simply. “And he loves me.”  
That, at least, got the attention of her father. He tensed up immediately, looking at his daughter who was doing her best to return Fauchelevent’s gaze. Marius’ heart went out to the honesty and courage of his beloved. The genie was released from the bottle, there was no recapturing it. Now, they had to see to the consequences.  
“Love”, the old man echoed, incredulously. “Love…” He shook his head. “What a foolish notion.”  
Marius was unsure about how to continue this conversation. How did one deal with that sort of situations? Was this the opportunity to ask for Cosette’s hand? Certainly not, after having just invaded the grounds of the family, and probably also not after knowing her for such a short time, and not knowing her father not at all.  
And yet, the genie was released from its proverbial bottle, and Marius did not want to back off it, doing Cosette’s admirably open statement dishonesty. He gathered what courage there was to be had and settled for a response that was as unambiguous, as it was careful.  
“Perhaps it is foolish”, Marius replied, softly. “But it is what it is.”  
Fauchelevent passed a weary hand over his face.  
“I see”, he said. “And how…”  
But he never finished the sentence, however it may have sounded, because he was interrupted by footsteps, light, but hasty, coming from across the hall. He turned towards the door, where a middle-aged, slightly plump woman entered the room, excited red spots coloring her pale cheeks.  
“Monsieur, Monsieur!”  
She had a vibrating alto, a voice, that under normal circumstances would have a calming influence on any given situation, but her own excitement and nervousness was coloring it to her disadvantage.  
Fauchelevent whirled around.  
“Yes, what is it?”  
“Monsieur, you told me to watch the gate from the upper story of the house, and I’ve seen four young men arriving, standing at the gate and asking for entry.”  
Marius jumped to his feet. Four? But before he could even react, Fauchelevent had grabbed his arm - the unharmed one, fortunately - with surprising strength and dragged him with him, through a corridor into another room on the other side of the building – a woman’s bedroom, as he would only later, when reminiscing of this scene, realize. Cosette followed, a few steps behind.  
The windows of the room were closed and hung with heavy drapes, leaving the room in a semi-lit stage, that allowed to discern only schemes and shapes, but Marius realized immediately the smell that seemed to hang on every item within this room, a fragrance, that was so utterly, inexplicably, and bewitchingly Cosette, that it made his step falter for a moment.  
However, there was no time for such sentimentalities. Fauchelevent had stepped to a window and opened the hangings slightly to peer through.  
What he saw, seemed to do nothing to alleviate his concerns, but he stepped aside to make room for Marius to take his own look.  
Feeling tense and trapped, he complied, but what he saw at the gates of the house chased his fear away like the morning sun. He even laughed softly for a small moment, the relief was so deep.  
“These are my friends”, he said, fondness coloring his voice. Of course, they had come for him. They were like a family, at the end of the day. And even though he had strayed, they had not forgotten him. He recognized Feuilly, Lesgle and Joly, but the fourth of the group made him frown again.  
He remembered the young man, if not his name. He had arrived in Paris only a few weeks prior and started to study law. Marius, together with Enjolras, Combeferre and Lesgle, had met him in a couple of lectures and been introduced to him by Jacques Morier, spokesman of the Cougourde of Aix and a fellow law student as well. He was a young man, looking as if he were a trifle indecisive between being shy and bold, with an air of a younger Jean Prouvaire about him, less dreamy, but in other areas certainly similar in character.  
He had been trailing the Cougourde since the first day of his arrival in Paris, and Marius had never seen him separated from the whole group.  
And glad as he was to see his friends, the presence of that particular young man put him slightly on the edge.  
Fauchelevent slowly turned to Marius, facing him in the semi-darkness of the room.  
“I would say, that it would be unkind to have them waiting for you, Monsieur. I do not want to be unkind, but I think we have had what conversation is to be had at the moment.”  
Marius swallowed, but held his ground.  
“Monsieur, what do you mean by that?”  
Fauchelevent sighed again, sounding slightly weary and closing his eyes for a moment.  
“What I mean, Monsieur, is that it has been a hectic and probably trying day for you, and that this has also affected Cosette and myself. You should go with your friends and rest. As for everything else, time will tell.”  
The lines of his face in the semi-darkness of the room seemed deeper, wearier than in the harsh light of day, and Marius could almost feel the sadness and worry radiating from the man. But maybe, Fauchelevent was right. Maybe this was an issue for another day.  
Provided, always, there was one day more…


	8. Beauty in the face of man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Éponine learns a thing or two about Les Amis and reaches an uncertain truce with Enjolras

**Chapter 7: Beauty in the face of man**   
_“What’s inside there?”_   
_”One moment of perfect beauty.”_

Eponine sat in the Café Musain with her brother and the remaining members of the Friends of the ABC, not really knowing why she was still there. Probably, it was because no one had told her to go away – a rare occurrence in itself – and because the combination of being wounded and in pain, the fading effect of the alcohol she had been given to soothe the stitching and the food she had been given made her slightly drowsy.  
No one seemed to mind, though.  
The conversation around the table was lightning quick and difficult to follow, ideas chased references she did not know, and clever jokes only half told but fully understood exchanged with bits and pieces of planning, and she could not help but feel reminded of a group of jugglers she had seen at a market once, throwing balls between them from one to the other, blindly knowing the comrade’s position and timing, moving in fast, practiced, comfortable paths.  
Gavroche did not seem to have the same trouble she had, sitting there, still digging in food, grinning broadly, piping in a comment at times. It was clear as daylight that he was so very comfortable with the group of young boys.  
And yet, her position of an observer allowed her a singular perspective on this group of young men, included in their circle, yet not part of them. It made her sensitive to the shifts and undercurrents of the conversation going on before her, and she watched with a detached interest that she attributed to her slightly tired, yet overall comfortable state.  
There was an odd mixture between fear and excitement wavering between them. Both were present in the faces and words of every one of the students, the mixture tempered differently for each of them, and the conversation drifted between these poles, probably unnoticed by them, yet not much less present.  
And they were worried. From time to time, one of them would bring up one of the comrades, that were currently not with them – be it Marius, one of the number of those that sought to retrieve him, or the two others still missing from their ranks, going by the name of Grantaire and Bahorel. This would be countered by stories, anecdotes concerning the respective man, and eventually, some sort of reassurance that he would be fine, and that there was nothing to worry.  
Which was the clearest sign that they indeed did. Worry, that is.  
Another subject of their concern, though less profound, less poignant, were other groups like theirs, names, that Eponine could not place, but that were colored with care for the well-being of the people in question as well. It was a strange view through a window into another world, a world where boys were playing at dreams and illusions, where hope was high and opportunities present.  
In parts, it angered her. In parts, it made her sad. She had seen the end of all hope, had felt the deep fall from grace, when she was still very young. Sitting here, in this atmosphere of light and optimism made her feel incredibly old, so much older than all the young faces around her.  
And for a moment, it made her long for something unnamed that was so distinctly out of her grasp. She had seen specters of it in the eyes of Marius Pontmercy, who showed her kindness and won her heart with this. But it was this instant, that she understood, that behind Marius, behind her affection for him that held deep and true, there was also the longing for something else, slipping through her fingers, as she tried to grasp it.  
Maybe it was the happy heart of a child, safe, cared for and with a future to have and to hold. Maybe it was hope, a path before her eyes, wherever it may lead her. Or a moment of perfect beauty, hidden in the face of the world, for no one’s eyes to see.  
If nothing else, then the reaction to steps coming towards the back room of the Musain, heralding another arrival, told her of the tension that lay between them unseen.  
Courfeyrac jumped up, while Combeferre and Jehan turned their gazes a little too quickly towards the door. Enjolras, probably the calmest of them all, leaned back in a studied gesture that belied his tension only to the trained observer. Gavroche, finally, turned around on his chair, calling out  
“Eh, who’s there?”  
“Melusine”, came a snarky and most definitely not female reply, quickly followed by the entrance of another young man, dark-eyed, black-haired, a grin on his face that to Eponine seemed slightly strained. He was dressed peculiarly, wearing a coat of almost stifling blue that looked expensive and a trifle extravagant – a clothing that would have immediately made his pockets a prime target for her quick fingers, in another life, another place, another time, had it not been for the sheer speed and energy, with which he entered the room.  
“Bahorel!” The tension in the room evaporated at Courfeyrac’s joyful exclamation, and he stepped towards the newly arrived, pulling him into a brotherly hug. “So good to see you!”  
Bahorel – for that was indeed the name of the young man – returned the gesture and then proceeded to greet all the others present with the same overflowing energy and cordiality. As he grasped Enjolras’ arm in a brotherly gesture, clapped Jehan’s shoulders and shook Combeferre’s hand, Eponine could again sense the delicate spell of something in the air, of completion and relief, of parts of a whole moving together in unison and depending on one another for strength and company. They were indeed family, more of a family than her own had been at the best of times – for even then there had been those cherished, and those less cherished, and this sort of competition was absent in the group before her. It was a strange wonder to behold.  
The newly arrived then turned to Gavroche, to ruffle his hair affectionately, and last stopped before her, giving the slightest of bows before her. His eyes were laughing.  
“Mademoiselle”, he greeted her, and she was not sure whether she was being mocked. “To what do we own the pleasure?”  
But before she could reply – or ask him if he knew her, and if yes, then from where, he turned towards the others again, all playfulness gone from his face, dark eyes serious and tense.  
“I take it you know, then”, he started without introduction, sitting down and taking some of the wine that had not gone out since it had first been ordered, courtesy of Courfeyrac.  
“Obviously this depends on what ‘it’ is”, Enjolras replied, not without sting. “But if you are referring to the fact, that there have been assassination attempts on the members of revolutionary groups, then yes, we know indeed.” He gave an appreciative nod to Eponine, which surprised her, since she had gone unremarked by the group for some time before now.  
“Pontmercy, Jehan and myself have been targeted, and if not for the quick thinking of Mademoiselle, I am not sure that the attempt would not have been successful.”  
Barohel turned towards her, as if seeing and reassessing her again.  
“Then you have my profound thanks, Mademoiselle”, and Eponine did not know how to respond to the fact, that everyone was expressing such gratitude towards a deed that she was neither very proud of, nor thought to be supremely clever now, in hindsight. She settled for a careful smile and a – quickly regretted – shrug, which elicited a comradely twinkle from Bahorel, before he rejoined the discussion with his friends.  
“So, where’s the rest?”  
“Marius has run off to a place I certainly don’t need to indicate to you”, Enjolras said, not without sarcasm. “Joly, Lesgle and Feuilly have followed to make sure he comes to no harm. As to Grantaire…” he shrugged a bit helplessly.  
“… he’s sitting in the main room having a lady on his lap”, Bahorel said, unable to hide a grin. “No worries needed there.” Enjolras snorted, but let it pass for the moment.  
“So, tell us. What’s going on?”  
“The picture is still not clear”, continued Bahorel. “After what I heard from the Barriere du Maine, I have taken some time to wander around, check on people, to find out what has been going on.”  
“That’s much appreciated”, Combeferre intercepted, and the worry in his voice was evident now.  
“So”, Bahorel started. “From what I can tell, situation is this. At the Barriere du Maine, someone has killed Jacques and Antoine Virille, in plain daylight and in a very public place, too. I did not nose around too much there, because the police arrived pretty quickly to conduct their own investigations, and I did not think it very wise to attract too much attention with questions of my own. As for Faubourg St. Antoine, Marcel Devereux was found dead in the Rue de Charonnes, a knife wound in his back. He was hidden fairly well, so that he was only found some time after he had died, so it’s not clear when it actually happened. I then turned to Issy, for I knew that the Cougourde would be meeting there today. I am not sure what actually happened there, but there seems to have been an incident at a small fair that had set up its tents in that part of town. I did not find anyone to give me the particulars - there were lots of stories and very little overlap to them – but there seems to have been some attack as well, and then a lot of students and the like scattering off in various directions. No dead reported, but several people said that three young men had been transported to a hospital, though I am not sure which one. I have tried to find someone from the Faubourg St. Maurice cell, or from the Chevaliers, but I have not been successful in either venture. Therefore, it is difficult to say, if they are just going about their business, or if something has happened there, that has not yet surfaced to the light of day.”  
Combeferre thoughtfully placed his fingertips against each other and gazed to the table unseeing.  
“An unpleasant picture, to say the least.”  
“True my friend. “ This was Enjolras. “In less than a day, we have gone from a group operating under the veil of secrecy to an army besieged, of sorts. This is earlier than we all anticipated, and yet, the deed cannot and will not be undone, and therefore we must adapt to it to successfully ride the tide.” He got up and started pacing, with barely suppressed energy, from the window to the opposing wall and back, like a tiger caged, as he lay out his thoughts before his friends.  
“So, we have to attend to first things first. The first, and most imperative is, to escape the imminent danger at hand. While the faces and goals of the attackers are still veiled from us, and while we are at a disadvantage, survival becomes imperative so that we may battle this threat to the best of our abilities. My friends, game has become war, there is no denying that.”  
He hesitated for a moment, before continuing. Eponine blinked quickly, deciphering the complicated phrasing with some difficulty, marveling at the tense atmosphere that suddenly had filled the room. She had seen Enjolras speak, in public places, before, but this here was something different. This was the smithy of plans and ideas, not unlike, but much brighter than one of the hide-outs that Patron-Minette used to assemble and lay out their schemes in, but the atmosphere was a different one, one of grim determination and calm confidence, and of an energy so strong she thought, she might catch it with her bare hands if she tried.  
“The second step will be to acquire more information on the damage wrought and still intended. It is vital, that we contact all of those that promised themselves to our common cause, to ascertain their well-being and determination in the days to come. We will think about this, as soon as the first is resolved. Thirdly, we have to find out the face of the attackers, their nature, capabilities and support. And only when this trinity is achieved, we can devise ways to continue our fight.”  
“Well spoken, my friend”, Combeferre replied, nodding appreciatively. “Indeed, intelligence is the first goal of the moment. While I agree with you”, he took up a thread from earlier in the discussion, before the arrival of Bahorel, “that this may be possibly used to our advantage as well – depending on the nature of the attacker, this may allow us to win more sympathetic ears than before, the situation is still unclear and needs redefinition.”  
A hint of a smile danced around Enjolras’ mouth.  
“I do heed your advice, from time to time”, he intercepted drily.  
“Which is well noted and appreciated”, Combeferre retorted with a similar smile to his lips. “So this means that we should not be left to wander the streets alone, as a first measure.”  
“Should be no problem”, Courfeyrac intercepted, turning to the practical. “Bossuet is staying with Joly anyhow, so they can go home to the same place, and probably drop of one or two of the others in the process. Probably I can take Marius in again, so that he doesn’t have to stay in that hideout of his during this time – I’m not sure his door even has a proper lock, if I’m honest – and as for the rest we should be able to bring all of you home safely, and for tomorrow, we can devise a routine as well, if needed. That’s the least of our worries.”  
“Not gonna be enough.”  
Eponine felt everyone’s eyes turning towards her, and regretted in the same instant, that she had spoken at all. She was not sure, why she had decided to join the discussion– it had been born more of the spur of a moment, than out of real reflection leading up to a decision, but now, that she had started, she could not take back the words and there was only one way to go.  
However, the atmosphere around the table was not a hostile one, despite her having been silent all the time before and now stepping in during the heat of the discussion. Indeed, the center of attention was now focused on her, and she dimly noted Combeferre’s slightly raised brow, and Bahorel’s frown.  
With an ease that she could not tell the source of, Enjolras demanded and focused her attention with the simple movement of one digit to his lips in a thoughtful gesture.  
“Go on?”  
His eyes were blue, like the sky on a frosty winter morn, and fully focused on her now, as if seeing her for the first time. Perhaps he was. And Eponine lurched forward, since there was no turning back.  
“Whoever that was, he knows his way around the streets. You go home in a group all right, that might scare him off, sure. But what should keep him from coming while you sleep?”  
“Well, the rooms would be locked, for sure”, Jehan contradicted, which elicited a laugh from Eponine.  
“If what I’ve seen from them is anything to go by, that’s not gonna keep them, if they are really determined. Fences can be climbed. Locks picked.”  
She closed her mouth. If she correctly judged the slight frown appearing on Enjolras’ face, she had already said too much.  
“She’s right”, Gavroche added from beside her, and all his good humor had flown to be replaced by worry. “If they’re really from the streets, they won’t be scared off so easily.”  
“But are they?” Combeferre tu-rned to the Thenadier siblings, looking from one to the other. “From the streets, that is?”  
“The guy that tried to kill you speaks Argot all right”, Gavroche said. “I’ve been wondering when I first saw him, ‘cause he was dressed like a merchant or summat like, but that would mean he’s had ‘is share of rough times.”  
“But you don’t know him.” It didn’t really sound like a question, and Gavroche shook his head. “Never seen that guy in me life. He’s probably not from St. Michel.”  
“Or has been gone for longer than you can remember running around the quarter”, Eponine added. “I mean, the guy was not young, was he?”  
“Nah, sure”, Gavroche shrugged. Apparently, he did not like being reminded that he had not been around always, to roam these streets at pleasure and know it as his very own playground.  
“So, all things considered”, Combeferre summarized, “it would be safer to assume, that they do indeed possess some of the shadier talents, that we should be weary of.”  
In a gesture, that was almost eerily similar, both Thenadier siblings nodded.  
“What would you propose then?” Enjolras focused on the task at hand.  
Eponine and Gavroche exchanged a look, that belied a higher familiarity with one another than either of them would have the Friends believe.  
“Don’t be alone”, Eponine started. “Like – ever. And don’t sleep all at the same time. There should always be one awake to take the watch, at least until you know what’s going on, or you can find a safe haven for you. Don’t let them catch you unawares.”  
Gavroche nodded.  
“That’s what we did, once, the boys and I, when we ran into trouble”, he emphasizes, and grins, apparently taken by his own cleverness. “Worked like magic.”  
“Group at least three of us together, each, you mean”, Enjolras concluded. “That would allow some sort of watch keeping at least. We cannot do this forever, of course, but to gain some time and to find what’s going on, I think this may be possible.”  
He counted through the assembled, frowning deeply.  
“So, I would send Feuilly off with Bossuet and Joly, seen as they already spent half the afternoon together. Bahorel, could you take Jehan and Grantaire with you?”  
The young dandy laughed slightly.  
“That’s provided that I can extract him from his place down in the main room, you mean.”  
“Provided, yes”, Enjolras concluded with a slight sigh. “Anyhow, Courfeyrac, apart from Marius, would you mind taking Gavroche with you? As for me, my apartment should be sufficiently large to host both you, Combeferre, and Mademoiselle Eponine.”  
That last two bits, however, elicited slightly shocked exclamations from both the Thenadier siblings. While Eponine was slowly coming to terms with the fact, that she had helped the Friends of the ABC, first in deed, and then in advice, this was going quite a few steps too far for her taste.  
“I am sorry, Monsieur”, she intercepted. “I appreciate it, really, but I don’t think that’s necessary.”  
Again, she found herself under the scrutiny of clear blue eyes, a blonde brow raised in slight irony.  
“I beg to differ, Mademoiselle”, Enjolras replied drily. “Apart from the fact, that you have been wounded today – and no trifle wound at that, which is actually why I would prefer to have you placed with one of our doctors-to-be - have you considered, that you have been seen? And that in doing what you did, at least in the eyes of our attackers, you might be as well a part of our group? Your life – I hate to say – is as much in danger as ours. And we would do your brave deed of this morning poor justice, if we would forget this.”  
There was a certain reasoning in his words, and no condemnation or reservation whatsoever to who – or what – she was. And yet, apart from the fact that she simply did not want to do what Enjolras proposed – yes, she was in need of a place to sleep, but it was summer and warm – there was also no way that she could do it.  
The words of her father had been crystal clear. Be back at midnight, he had said. Meet me in the silver hall. And disobeying him had never, ever turned out well.  
Of course, she could always escape from the place that they were trying to convince her to go, but that would defy the whole purpose of the exercise, and she did not want the blood of Enjolras and Combeferre on her hands in any shape or form. They had been nice to her. Such a thing was precious, and she recognized it as such.  
“Monsieur, I appreciate your offer, I really do. However, to be blunt, to walk with you would put me probably in more danger than if you just let me roam on my own.” That much was almost true, at least. She smiled a grim smile. “I’m a street rat, Monsieur. I know my way ‘round.”  
“No doubt about that.” Combeferre’s voice betrayed clearly that he liked no more than Enjolras what she said. “Are you really determined?”  
Eponine’s gaze wandered from Combeferre to Enjolras. The former one’s eyes were easier to counter – the leader of the ABCs used his gaze as a sort of weapon, and he was fully aware of its deadliness, but Eponine had seen worse things in her life, much worse, and she knew how to stand her ground.  
“I am”, she answered, and got up. A part of her was not happy about leaving this safe haven, but she felt that she had overextended her welcome, and she was not sure, if she stayed, that it would be easier later to leave. Following an impulse, that she did not fully understand, she offered. “I’m sorry. But I think I will have to leave now.”  
Enjolras held her eyes for a moment, searching, inquiring, a silent battle in the twinkle of an eye.  
She did not lose, and finally he nodded in acquiescence and got up.  
“Mademoiselle, the free will of a determined person is not to be swayed, this I see.”  
She stepped towards the door – carefully, but much more surely than before, food and drink had certainly seen to that – and he cut her to it, meeting her at the entrance. For a wild moment, Eponine thought, that he would stop her, but he did not. Instead, he held out his hand and clasped her good arm, more in a gesture of camaraderie than of politeness. She was surprised enough to let it happen and looked at him quizzically, trying to ascertain his motives. He did not give anything away, but was deadly serious. His eyes were cold, but not unkind, and when he spoke, his voice did not carry far, but brought forth a certain intensity that caught her unawares.  
“Again, Mademoiselle, I thank you for the deed you have done today. I am well aware of the debt that I owe you. Rest assured, I will not forget it.”  
She nodded, without knowing why, and he continued.  
“Some of us, at least, will stay at 7, Rue Pascal today. Know, that you will be welcome there, and here in the Café, if the need arises.”  
He briefly tightened his grip on her arm, and nodded quickly, as if to confirm what he had just said.  
“Thank you”, Eponine managed, slightly shaken and unsure what to do with this new sort of admittance. But then, he released her arm, and she was free to go.  
Which she did, trying not to make it look like flight.


	9. Honor amongst the wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see Montparnasse and his dealings with Éponine

**Chapter 8: Honor amongst the wolves**   
_“Let me pass on to you the one thing I’ve learned about this place: No one here is exactly what he appears.”_

The small chapel was filled with the smell of incense and the smoke of many candles. Through the windows, darkened by the multicolored wonders that were the glass windows of a church, as well as by the passing of many years, the church interior was filled with a sort of half-light that beckoned the shadows both real and metaphorical.  
There were few visitors at this time of day – in the early hours of the evening, when summer daylight was still full outside and there was work to be done – and so there were only four people inside the small church, the two men sitting pretty close together, each of the others lost in their own reveries.  
Before a side altar showing a rather crude picture of Virgin Mary, holding her child tenderly in her arms, kneeled – not without difficulty – elderly Michèle Marigot, praying for a safe delivery of her first grandchild into this world, oblivious to the quiet, unobtrusive steps of Sister Benedicta, a girl of barely seventeen, who had come to replace the candles.  
Both women were lost to their own errands in this house of god, and so there was enough privacy to be had for the quiet conversation between the two other visitors of the church.  
The Hound had just finished reporting the events of the day and their results – not without annoyance at the attempt gone not quite as he expected – and as he fell silent, the man at his side slowly turned his face towards him.  
“I see.” The voice of the Friend did not betray his thoughts, but he radiated displeasure none the less. There was a silent air of command about him that was not to be ignored  
“I have seen her a few times”, the Hound explained himself unasked, because he knew, if the question would have to come, things would not become better. “Mostly with the Baron. Yet, I had no indication that she was actually part of their group or capable of anything like what she did. She stayed mostly out of the way. Has some fondness for the Baron, I wager.” The feeling of failure was imminent. He had not been their brother for so long, the memory of his choosing was still fresh in his mind. And yet he had returned with nothing to show.  
The Friend placed a hand on the bench before him, and the Hound could see it clenching.  
“I see”, he said again, but there was nothing, that the Hound could have continued to say. The story was told. Silence settled, as biting as a snake in the grass.  
“Since when”, the Friend finally began to speak, in a dangerously soft voice, “do we deviate from our plans?”  
Slowly, the head of the Hound came up, and he faced his brother, who still refused to look at him. Of course, the Hound knew, what had caused the fall from grace in the eyes of the Friend – they knew each other well, after all – but in this, he was not swayed.  
“You sent me to hunt a prey”, he said, what his brother should, must already know. “And this I do.”  
“What you do”, the Friend broke rudely into his red dreams, “is fulfill the oath that you swore.” He did not need to raise his voice. The whispered tone was like the lash of a whip.  
But a predator was not cowered by a show of strength.  
“They got away”, he hissed between his teeth, all the fury and thirst for a prey running seeping into his voice. “I thought I could still catch him.”  
“And you were seen in the process. Deviations are dangerous, brother. Incidents like these happen. New factors appear. Failure occurs. Learn to live with it. Learn to live for the next day.”  
“They got away”, the Hound repeated, stubbornly, the only argument that counted, and the one argument that his brother refused to see. “No one gets away.”  
He fought against the racing of his heart, against the outrage and the red dream that threatened to overwhelm him. He remembered the scent of the girl, dirt and fury, blood and anger. Remembered the fear in the two young boy’s eyes, the grim, proud determination in the posture of the blonde man. Eponine Jondrette, Marius Pontmercy, Jean Prouvaire, Sebastien Enjolras, he repeated to himself, like a prayer, the names he had gathered during tedious weeks of observing, of questioning, of hunting, and in the case of the former, hectic questioning after the marketplace incident. He had set out to sow as much damage as he might. And he had turned out to kill none.  
“And they will not”, the Friend intercepted his thoughts. His voice was calmer now, finding its way almost effortlessly through the rage. “But what you need is patience, brother.”  
His fingers clenched into his trousers, because he knew that the Friend was right. Taking deep breaths, he calmed himself. He had been beyond this already. He should be.  
When he moved to look to the Friend again, he saw him smiling slightly.  
“Very well”, his brother said, appreciatively. “Very well. The next step will come. Don’t worry.”  
The Hound nodded, his control returned at the reassurance of another day. And now, that he was calmer, curiosity awoke, rearing its head like a softer, calmer animal awakening.  
“What about you?”  
The smile of the Friend widened, and he thought, he detected some satisfaction around the lines of his mouth, as he replied.  
“Five.”  
She drifted through the streets with the ease of long practice and habit.  
Summer in the city was upon them, and it brightened even the darkest of quarters, as the dust swirling from passing carriages glittered in the sun and the colors seemed to have taken on a brighter, clearer hue than in the pastel days of spring or the gray, dark days of winter.  
Eponine passed easily through the crowds that filled the slum streets of St. Michel, avoided the carriages crowded by beggars and cutpurses, slipped between bulks of people on their own errands and where aptly hid the fact, that she did not know where she was heading.  
Almost randomly, she remembered going back to Montfermeil once, two or three years after everything had gone awry, in cue of her parents, who followed their own schemes and plans. She did not remember what they had done there – taken revenge on those, that had owned their inn after them, paid old debts, collected old promises – but she remembered the sun on the dusty pavements, and the echos of smells and voices of a life past, a life so different, that it seemed like a dream in the present.  
The strange notion of seeing something familiar with new eyes.  
She wondered, what the Friends of the ABC saw, when they roamed these streets together.  
She had shed the sling, with which Combeferre had fixed her wounded shoulder, at the first unwatched opportunity. She had struggled with the deed for a moment – it was comfortable and kept her from subconsciously making movements, that shoved pain like a hot dagger up her shoulder and neck – but wearing her vulnerability on her sleeves like this was a dangerous thing in her worlds, both old and new.  
It made her an easier target for those predators, who did not mind turning against their own, and it was too clean – and well done – to be used for begging.  
Not that she was currently in the need to provide some extra food or money. The afternoon with the bourgeois had left her well-fed and cared for, and as to sleep – that would seem a faraway prospect anyhow with what the night seemed to hold in store for her.  
But until then, she was free to do as she pleased, free to catch up on the old errand that she had been kept from by those, that had helped her as well as kept her captive. And directed her steps towards the calmer dwellings of Rue Plumet.  
She did not have to move even that far. She was crossing the Jardin du Luxembourg, when she saw the all too familiar figure of Marius, accompanied by the three friends who had gone out to bring him back to the Café. He looked pale, and shaken, and there was a bandage around his left arm that showed signs of dried blood, but his stride was determined, and he was discussing agitatedly with his friends. A fourth young man was accompanying them, barely more than a boy, with sandy hair and eyes that still dreamed of a world too good to be true, a child, no more, who still had to come in contact with the reality of life.  
Relieved, she closed her eyes for a moment. He was safe. Not unharmed, but safe. A grace in itself. She hoped that his friends were able to keep him that way. She had other errands to run.  
They were obviously on their way back to Saint Michel, probably the Café Musain, the one place, where Eponine currently had no intention going, having just escaped, and so, with a heavy heart none the less, she decided to let them pass, to dive into the crowds populating the gardens, so that not even a stray glance might discover her and seek her out.  
She was good at that.  
Unless, of course, being matched against someone whose proficiency in this department was equal to hers.  
“Running from sweet Pontmercy?”  
She did not have to turn around to know who had approached her, so she did not even bother flinching. He was a dangerous man, for sure, but not for her.  
None the less, she moved to look him in the eye.  
A man barely older than she was, brown, slightly unruly brown hair hidden by a carefully chosen cap of midnight blue. Eyes of impossible, enchanting green, a rogue smile that was dangerously infectious. A straight nose, high cheekbones, surprisingly delicate features covered by rough skin. A carefully chosen coat, just slightly too extravagant, the cuffs a trifle to laced, and yet, from pristine white cuffs propped calloused, nimble fingers, that Eponine knew only too well.  
Epitome of contradictions. Dressed up for the occasion.  
Montparnasse.  
She smiled. This was familiarity returned.  
“There’s a time for everything, Parnasse”, she replied lightly. It would never do well to be too truthful to him, no matter that they knew each other well. He was like a bird of prey. He sensed weakness and thrived on it, even in her and in jest.  
There had been a time where she thought, she would go with him. They knew each other with their eyes closed, had shared love and hate among the ruins, that were her life and his glory, but all of that had been before Marius, before everything had changed.  
Before she had had a first glimpse of a paradise lost.  
“A time for walking with me, Mademoiselle?” He offered her an arm, and the feeling of seeing the same with a fresh pair of eyes returned with fervor. His way of calling her ‘Mademoiselle’ had a distinctively different ring to it than the address she had received from the friends in the Café Musain.  
They had almost said it as if they meant it. For Montparnasse, on the other hand, it was only a game. Nothing more. Just like everything else.  
But Eponine, in her own right, was a gambler, too. And so, with her good arm, she took his, wrapping her fingers almost playfully around his biceps in a gesture of familiarity. There was nothing else to do, until nightfall.  
“Like all those respectable bourgeois?” she replied, with a slight smirk, as she surveyed the assembly in the garden, families on their outings, students debating – or rather discussing, for there was no Enjolras, no Marius to fuel the discussion with fury and change. He returned the grin, grabbing her arm a little more tighly and starting off in the direction of the fountain, for all intents and purposes imitating the leisurely stride of the cast he was trying to fit in – or mock. You never knew with Montparnasse.  
“Exactly so”, he confirmed and led her along, actually quite proficient in this act, much more so than herself. She was very aware of her tangled hair, of the dirt on her blouse… of the bloodstains.  
That stilled her thought. Had he seen?  
“So, ‘Ponine, what brought you out in the open so early?” he asked, almost casually. “Given the fact, that we have a long night in front of us, shouldn’t you still be in bed?”  
Eponine smirked up. He was right in a way. She was not sure yet, what her father had cooked up together with Patron-Minette, but it was certainly to be trouble, long nights out in the streets, waiting, watching and fearing, with a meager reward at the end and a weariness that ate throught directly to her bones. But Eponine had never believed in trying to advance in sleep before a night like this. Best get it over and done with, and then mercifully pass out on a full stomach.  
“Did I miss the point where my sleeping habits suddenly became your business?”  
She did not feel like explaining herself, and a warning shot fired could seldom do harm with Montparnasse. Especially given the fact that she had realized, that his company was probably incompatible with that of Marius – and given the choice, the decision was not a difficult one.  
“Everything that concerns you, is my business”, he replied smoothly, smiling a captivating smile. “I make it so, you know?” There was the slightest of frowns appearing on his face as he stilled for a moment, watched her, measured her, face and body, and bloodstained clothing. “Speaking of which…” His free hand fingered the clotted blood on the clothing, and something that passed for genuine concern ghosted over his face. “Care to explain what happened?”  
Of course he had seen it. It may well be the reason, why he had spoken to her in the first place. Eponine pondered his question for a moment. Her natural reaction was to decline. Explaining things to Montparnasse – whatever things they were – was certainly not high on her list of priorities, but on the other hand.  
He might actually know something. And this was Montparnasse. Montparnasse, who had harbored a fondness for her since she was a child. He had taken her distancing with the good humor of the ignorant – his behavior towards her never changed, but he had taken her reservation in his stride as if there was nothing to comment upon.  
“Why not”, she replied and then she told him. The landscape at least. The attack at the students. Her getting into the middle of things.  
She carefully smoothed over the fact that she had deliberately thrown herself into harm’s way to protect Marius. There was certainly no reason to tell him that. Either he knew anyway, or he had no business knowing.  
Her description of the attacker was as accurate as ever – time had not dimmed the memory of the face that had burned into her thoughts with blazing brightness.  
“I’ve never seen that one before”, she concluded, and barely avoided to shrug. “Strange fellow. Had a hint of Argot on his voice, but I’ve never seen him round the quarter. Beats me who he is.” And then, almost casually, she continued, looking into the face of her childhood friend. “You wouldn’t know, would you?”  
He hesitated, just a trifle too long.  
“No idea, no.”  
Eponine squinted, taking a good look at her childhood friend’s profile. His face was handsome as ever, and betrayed nothing. And yet, she had heard the catch in his voice.  
“Like I’ll believe you”, she baited. “You got to do better than this.”  
“Ponine, you should leave that alone.”  
His voice was deadly serious, and that indeed got her attention. She remembered preciously few occasions, that were able to wipe the ever present smile of Montparnasse’s face. None the less, she pressed on.  
“Aha”, she said, and could not fully keep the smile off her face. “So you do know that guy.”  
“I’ll laugh about your cheek when you’re lying dead in the gutter”, Montparnasse said soberly, gazing straight on towards the path they were still making, in a mockery of the bourgeoisie around them. “Cause that’s what will happen when you go down that road.”  
Eponine snorted. His attitude was certainly not appreciated.  
“Guy tried to stab me. Sorry for taking that personal.”  
And sorry for taking personal that he tried to kill the man I love…  
“Will you take it personal also when he kills the proverbial curious cat?”  
She was on the verge to a snarky reply, when he continued. “Because that’s what he’ll do. Would be a shame, though.” A remnant of the old Montparnasse, in a smile and a twinkle towards her. “At least I’d say so.”  
“So he kills people to rob them?” Eponine was not swayed. Apart from the fact, that knowledge would possibly be able to save Marius, her curiosity was also peaked.  
Montparnasse snorted.  
“He kills people to kill them. Because it’s interesting, because he likes to do it, and most importantly, because he can.”  
Eponine pondered this for a moment.  
“Charming fellow.”  
Montparnasse nodded.  
“Like I said. Stay clear of him. He’s a hunter. Try not to become the prey.” It was rather too late for that, Eponine concluded, a shiver running down her spine. Rather too late for her, and rather too late for Marius. Still, she might have fooled herself that there was real concern in Montparnasse’s voice.  
It was an easy promise to make. Whether Montparnasse was throwing a fit for nothing or whether he was right, she had preciously little reason to seek that specimen of man out.  
Unless…  
His voice echoed in her ear, rolling around between her thoughts, thundering, whispering, forming a picture – He’s a hunter. Try not to become the prey.… and then she remembered, that he had followed Marius – Marius – and she was not sure, whether she was good enough a liar to make that sort of promise.  
Montparnasse had seen it in her eyes. He knew her too well.  
“Oh no”, he shook his head. “You are not mooning about that beggar’s baron, you can forget that right away. That’s not worth it. Eponine, this is no question of breaking into a house or stealing someone’s purse. Drop it. Promise me, you’ll drop it.”  
She did not hesitate for long. They were all liars in their own way.  
“I promise”, she said.  
The false words slipped over her lips so very easily.


	10. Gentle, the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see Les Amis hiding and watching

**Chapter 9: Gentle, the night**

“I’ll have to apologize.” Gavroche raised his head towards Courfeyrac, who had, after opening the door, turned back to look at him with a twinkle in his eye. “I fear, my humble dwellings are nowhere near as glamorous as an elephant statue”, he continued ruefully, blindly pushing open the door with an all too familiar movement. “Though I hope, they will be sufficient for the night.”  
Gavroche grinned.  
“I’d have taken ya with me”, he offered, pushing past the two students into the dark apartment bent on inspection of the place. “But ya wouldn’a fit. Y’re too big. Plus, I’m not sure what the boys would have said to it.”  
For a moment, the thought made him pause. Jean, Sylvain and Pucet would be alone in their hideout place today. It was not the first time, that this had happened, but Gavroche worried none the less. They fended for themselves well, now, after all that they had learned since he had found them, one by one, but still, a family remained a family, however strange it was. And if it was a bunch of boys who met by coincidence and called home an abandoned memory at former glory and found their way in the world in the manner of everything, that is clever, resourceful and just the tiniest bit ruthless.  
It was not to be helped. Gavroche decided to make it a point tomorrow to check out their regular haunts to see that everything was fine. Which it would be. The elephant statue was as safe a place as one could imagine.  
Therefore it was actually quite pointless from a safety perspective, that Gavroche had joined Courfeyrac and Marius to stay the night in Courfeyrac’s apartment. He agreed with his sister, the likes of them were safer on the streets, on their own, in their regular haunts, because this was the world they knew, but Gavroche could also not help agreeing with Enjolras, that someone had to look out for his two friends, and he did not mind it.  
Getting a good peek at the place Courfeyrac lived in was a bonus. Gavroche had been curious for a while.  
Not minding the fact, that the inhabitant of the apartment was well behind him, and that the only light coming into the apartment was, what little moonlight passed between thin curtains, he set about exploring.  
It was a single room, and fairly large, a small wooden door at the side leading presumably to a small wash room. Gavroche gave a quick look around in the dark, but before he could set off to explore in more detail, Courfeyrac called him back.  
“Hey, Gavroche!” It was barely more than a whisper, but it sounded anxious. He hesitated. The room seemed empty and deadly silent, but Courfeyrac was right. You never knew.  
Gavroche backed off to the two students, still standing at the door. Courfeyrac took his shoulder, in an almost unconscious gesture, to push the boy behind him, before he turned up the glow of his oil lamp to shed a better light into the room.  
“Marius?”  
The baron’s son took a pistol out of his pocket, checking the weapon before he took the first steps into the room.  
Tedious, nervous moments they searched the small apartment, that luckily was sorely bereft of hiding places. Gavroche, while watching the two and following them at a small distance, passed his time with inspecting the room, satisfying his curiosity as much as time would allow.  
The room was well furnished, comfortable, but not lavish. The wall opposite the entrance hosted a number of windows, the left part of them was blocked by a huge wooden desk, that was littered with papers, open books, and a forgotten plate with the remnants of a previous meal. Old ink-stains covered the table in various places.  
On the other side, beneath the windows on the right side, there was a couch and an armchair, standing on a carpet that seemed distinctly past its prime. A bed occupied the right back corner of the room, a stove and a cast-iron oven stood in the final corner. The center of the room was blocked by another table, on which stood a second oil lamp that Courfeyrac lit as soon as he was certain that the room was devoid of unwanted guests. Two cupboards and a number of shelves completed the picture. The apartment had a chaotic, slightly worn, lived-in feel to it.  
Gavroche took to like it immediately.  
“It’s no elephant”, he confirmed, when the two students finally relaxed, their manner becoming less tense, their gazes less anxious, when they looked around the room. “But it’ll do.”  
“I had hoped so”, Courfeyrac answered with a grin, that clearly showed his relief – though probably not mostly at Gavroche’s statement and ruffled the boy’s hair, before he took to close and lock the door.  
“So, there’s the couch and there’s the bed.” He stood in the middle of the room, next to the table and thoughtfully scratched through his unruly, dark locks. “We’ll see how we sort that out.”  
Half an hour later, they had installed themselves quite nicely. The stove had been lit, and a kettle with hot water was boiling merrily in case someone felt the need for tea. They had decided on the watches – Courfeyrac, still wound up by the events of the day, would start to be then replaced by Marius, whom a little rest would do well after his two near brushes with death, while Gavroche would take the early morning hours, when light was creeping back in and no attack was expected any more.  
He had protested, of course. And lost.  
As of now, however, it did not seem as if any of them would get any sleep soon. Courfeyrac had dug out some of the remaining roast that Madame Allevesse, the wife of the owner of the tenement, who had taken a liking to the young student, had brought yesterday, and the three of them were enjoying a late-night meal and, likewise, late-night conversation.  
“So, you got patched up by Cosette. Well played, Marius.” Courfeyrac grinned broadly.  
There was a smile on the young baron’s face that he tried to hide.  
“It’s not funny”, he contradicted, without being able to completely suppress a laugh. They had accompanied the roast with a bottle of wine, and consequently, spirits were high and the shadows of the day past seemed less dark and dreary. “Well…”, he backed off, “maybe a little.”  
“She didn’t throw you out after you led an assassin practically to her doorstep”, Courfeyrac continued his friendly teasing. “Sounds like love to me.”  
Marius’ face was practically glowing. He was easy to embarrass, and even though Gavroche was currently only a spectator to that particular game, he had to admit that it looked like fun.  
“I would hope it”, Marius answered, more quietly. His fingers were thoughtfully playing around his glass of wine, when suddenly a frown entered his features, clouding the expression on his face. “Her father though…”  
“Less than amused, hm?”  
Marius laughed, despite himself.  
“Oh yes”, he confirmed with a world-weary sigh. “But what’s done’s done. He practically threw me out, of course, but he didn’t forbid me to come back.”  
“Not that he could, eh?” Gavroche piped in. Marius being besotted with Cosette was plain for any blind man to see. “Don’t worry, if he really shut’s you out, I’ll find ya a way in. Even one big for a big fella like ya.”  
“I have no doubt about that”, Marius replied fondly. “Although I think Eponine would surely also find a way. She is remarkably resourceful…”  
Gavroche liked Marius. He really did. On his better days, he was almost as much fun as Courfeyrac, good company and someone to go to when things took a turn for the worse. Like Courfeyrac, he treated him like a person, and had not chased him away from any places Gavroche thought he had business being. However, when it came to the point of his sister, the man was remarkably stupid. Gavroche saw Eponine only rarely these days, but a blind man – unless going by the name of Marius Pontmercy – would have seen how much she was attached to him. And Marius had nothing else to do than to rub whole handfuls of salt into that particular wound, and causing pain to his sister was something that Gavroche did not appreciate. However, Eponine – in turn – would probably not appreciate him being all to open about either of these points.  
She was the only one left from the ruin that was their mutual family that was still on speaking terms with him, and Gavroche did not intend to jeopardize that.  
“Bah”, he piped in, making a dismissive movement with his hand. “Don’t bother her for that.” He forced a grin onto his face and fixed Marius in a challenging stare, “she’ll lead you through thorns and ya’ll arrive at their house properly scratched and bloody. Wouldn’t want that, eh? Plus, don’t ya trust me?”  
Courfeyrac, as always, picked up quickly where he was going. But the quick look Gavroche got from his friend told him, that at some point in time, there would be questions about himself and Eponine.  
Drat.  
But now was obviously not the time.  
“Probably scared of tight, small places”, he mentioned to Gavroche, in an almost conspicuous way. “Anyhow, Marius, the little one has a point there, I think.”  
“I wouldn’t dream of doubting you”, Marius smiled to Gavroche. “I will let you know, when the opportunity arises. Although I seriously hope that there will be no need for it.”  
“You have to be optimistic, my friend”, Courfeyrac grinned. “You’re young, good-looking, probably any day now wanted by every policeman with half a gun in this city, and high on the list of people to die by the stray shot of a madman’s gun. How could a girl resist that?”  
Marius snorted, but could not hide a smile.  
“How indeed”, he mused, his gaze straying without much of a decision on his part to the cloth at his arm, as if now, that he was calm, at rest, the events of the day were catching up with him. He barely suppressed a yawn.  
“I think it’s time”, he said, finally, whether it was to escape Courfeyrac’s teasing or because he was really tired was anyone’s guess.  
For a moment, the other student looked as if he would contradict him.  
But in the end, he didn’t.

“Is it curious, to all of a sudden feel old at an age like ours?”  
There was a slightly rueful, ironic quality to Combeferre’s question, as he took a deep breath from his pipe, the ember glow a warm source of light and comfort. The response was a soft sound, somewhere between a snort and a laugh, but otherwise, Enjolras chose not to answer right away. He was standing at the window in the only dimly lit flat, gazing out to the silent back street that was Rue Pascal.  
They were in the living room of what was Enjolras’ two-room apartment, and Combeferre was sitting in an armchair, thoughtfully gazing towards the wide open door that led into the bedroom.  
There, Marc Lamarin was sleeping peacefully – the source of his comment from just a moment ago. Unlike Enjolras, Combeferre had met the young law student for the first time, and the innocence and fear in the youth’s eyes as he haltingly told of what he remembered, had not left him untouched. Shy as he was, frightened to the bone and desperate for any source of a security, however false it would have been, he seemed indeed younger than little Gavroche, who had proudly claimed, that of course he would not need to stay with anyone this night, because he knew his way around, but that he would comply for Pontmercy’s and Courfeyrac’s sake, all in generosity.  
“You were born old, my friend.”  
He took a moment to connect the seemingly disjointed comment from Enjolras to his previous question and raised his head to look at his friend.  
Enjolras had refrained from his silent pondering and turned back to the inside of the room, looking to Courfeyrac, at first cool and serious before the moment was broken for a fleeting smile. He had a restless quality about him that seemed intrinsic to the man. Naturally his thoughts were still occupied by the events of the day, as well as their consequences, that he longed to tackle as he longed for dawn, or for things to get into motion.  
Not caring, that it was actually Enjolras’ own apartment, Combeferre invited him to sit with an inclination of his head.  
“Tell me”, he said.  
They knew each other well. In their time, eternities had passed, worlds had turned and dreams had grown and been shattered, and they had grown with it, until time, circumstances and determination had made them who they were today. Enjolras was probably more of a brother to him, than his own flesh and blood had ever been.  
“It’s obvious”, Enjolras began, “that whoever has initiated these attacks has done so to stop us from trading the path we are walking. Naturally, as a consequence we have to meet their discouragement with determination. It will not do for us to slide into the shadows unnoticed. Nothing else could give them better victory.”  
Combeferre drew on his pipe thoughtfully, watching as the clouds of smoke wavered through the room.  
“Bravely spoken, Enjolras”, he answered, “and not untrue, for certain. Especially those who value free speech, will not appreciate that knifes in the dark have been drawn for mere words. Still…” he snipped away some of the ashes from the pipe, “… still our prime objective should be to find out what is going on. It is true, we have an opponent, but one we know neither face nor shape of. The guard, we know. The king and his minions, we know. But what of those?”  
Enjolras shook his head.  
“Whose men could it be? Saint Michel beggars attacking students and revolutionaries, because they are fond of their situation?” The tone said that even the thought would be ridiculous, and Combeferre raised a calming hand.  
“Peace, friend”, he answered. “I do have the same suspicion as you do. But still. Let us think this through. We continue with what we did before…”  
“We rally support. We open to the public what has happened. Speeches. Leaflets. Whatever it takes. Shadows fear the sun. So let us give them enough light to drown them in. Whoever they are, how shall they move, when every one of our supporters will watch around for them, will drive their fury towards those hidden knifes?” Enjolras leaned back in the armchair, his whole posture an image of barely suppressed challenge.  
“That is a good direction, Enjolras”, Combeferre had to concur. His gaze wandered around the shadows of the room. “Eponine was right – there is certainly protection in numbers, and to rally numbers, we need to expose the secret to those willing to help. But that is a two-edged sword. We have to tread carefully.”  
“Careful, slow, will get us nowhere, Combeferre”, Enjolras disagreed, shaking his head. “Time is of the essence. Things are converging, and you know it. We do not have the time to step tenderly around each puddle of mud, around every worried whisper. The public will be with us, don’t worry, but only if taken in a storm, not with wise words and tender dealings.”  
“In this you are right”, Combeferre concurred, his look as if on its own wandering back to the three pistols, that were lying on the table between them. Ready. Just in case. He shuddered. “Determination and strength of movement are mandatory. If we do not have confidence, no one will. However… just think about the boy there.” He nodded towards Lamarin, sleeping soundly in Enjolras’ bed. It had taken some coaxing – and a big, calming sip of brandy – to get the boy into this state, overwrought and scared as he had been. “This was not determination. This was fear. And fear will cripple what we intend to inspire. Fear will turn them from us in an instant.”  
“Then we must erase these doubts, for sure.” Enjolras was tapping the armrest of his seat thoughtfully. “It needs to be done. Strength will sway some, but not all.”  
“Here a face of the enemy may help”, Combeferre came back to his original trail of thought. “Again, not with all. But like a good meal, we will have to mix the ingredients to make the people swallow the dish in one and ask for more.”  
Enjolras snorted softly. He knew when he was being manipulated, but by the time he had realized it, he had apparently also realized the wisdom in Combeferre’s words. It was a long-standing game between them, one, that despite the heated discussions, that it sometimes inspired, was appreciated and fruitful. Enjolras was a man of action. He saw path and goal, and would not fear to step into darkness to connect both of them, his determination unwavering and strong. And Combeferre would be right beside him, to see the path and recognize its windings, pitfalls and dangers, build bridges across rifts Enjolras would jump out of sheer willpower, merging the clear way forward with the complete picture. Both knew they were doomed on their own. And hence, Enjolras’ face showed a hint of a rueful smile.  
“How to win friends and influence people, you mean.”  
Combeferre laughed at this. That was an expression of Grantaire’s, of all people, one, that he usually used when talking about Enjolras’ public speeches in the man’s absence, but Enjolras himself had heard that expression only recently, from Joly, who had referenced to it after a few cups of wine, and he had, surprisingly, taking an amused liking to it, not knowing where it originally came from.  
“That, my friend, is entirely in your domain.”  
He drew on his pipe again, that had begun to go cold, the smoke like ash in his mouth. He made a face. “However”, he continued, “the mixture between fear and determination is one that we will have to temper well, also when we deal with our comrades from the other sections. We do not know yet fully what has happened to all of them, and what it has wrought. We have lost none of our number, but to be honest, I am not sure how we would have been, had we been mourning Jehan tonight.”  
“It is no game, that we play”, Enjolras contradicted impatiently. “We have known that all along.”  
“Knowing and seeing are two different things, Enjolras. Never the less; what I am trying to say is that we must have a watchful eye on this, no more, no less. We also have to consider, that most of the targets were figureheads of the movement. Jacques from the Cougoude. Marcel Devereux in Saint Antoine. The Virille brothers. And god knows who else. We should expect disorientation. Chaos maybe even.”  
“Then we shall expect it and meet it”, Enjolras concluded firmly. “Loss is nothing unfamiliar in this land. It is the cruelty of the king himself, him and his minions, that has brought us into the positions where we were. If we have to suffer the same hand, it may also form our ranks even closer. Fear can turn to rage. Love to thirst for revenge.”  
“A dark path”, Combeferre mused, slightly worried. It was not unlike his friend to get carried away in this. And for a moment he was indeed incredibly glad for another reason that they had lost none of their numbers today. Enjolras’ outrage would have been terrible. Retribution swift.  
Silence settled in for a moment, both men lost in thoughts of the days to come. Finally, his pipe gone out, Combeferre began to speak again, voicing a slowly forming thought.  
“Speaking of knowing the face of our enemies…”, he mused, “what do you think the bourgeoisie would do, were they to know that free speech may bring them a swift death at the hand of a cold knife in broad daylight? Given the fact we could convincingly prove it?”  
A muscle in Enjolras’ cheek twitched, and he raised his brows at the implications of this. Combeferre already knew, what he would say.  
“Interesting….”

 

“She’s my sister.”  
Courfeyrac turned away from the window he had been gazing through for what felt like an eternity to the source of the voice, the boy, curled up on his couch, covered in a woolen blanked, huddled in so deep, that only nose, eyes and a mop of blonde hair were to be seen. He felt a sudden rush of affection at the sight of the boy, who was doing a convincing show of being asleep. But he was sure of what he had heard. And he did not need to ask whom he meant.  
“I thought you didn’t have any family”, he replied, for indeed, there had been a day where he had asked Gavroche, whether there was any form of home he could go back to if he wanted, and he had gotten rebuffed, probably more strongly than ever before or after.  
“I don’t. I have a sister.” Gavroche’s voice was muffled by the blanket. “’Ponine.”  
“Ah”, Courfeyrac answered, with a smile. “I was wondering.”  
“Tellin’ ya cause I knew y’ll ask”, Gavroche murmured. “Don’t wanna lie to ya.” He sounded tired.  
Courfeyrac, curiously touched, stepped away from the window and up to the couch, tucking the blanket closer around the boy.  
“That’s nice of you”, he commented. Gavroche yawned.  
“I know.”  
“So she saves some of us today”, Courfeyrac concluded, with humor in his voice. “And she’s the sister to my little brother. Makes her practically one of us, hm?”  
There was a quick smile on Gavroche’s face at the address given to him by Courfeyrac, but his face turned serious again soon enough.  
“She’s one of no one”, he retorted. And while Courfeyrac was still pondering this, the boy opened one blue eye to look at him suspiciously.  
“Tell no one”, he said. “Especially not her. Promise.”  
“I promise, little one”, he answered, still unsure what to do with this information. “Now go back to sleep.”  
The boy yawned and nodded.  
“Sure do”, he said, and was out within seconds, leaving Courfeyrac to stand at the window, and watch, and wait for dawn.


	11. Night of blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an attempt at burglary goes spectacularly wrong

**Chapter 10: Night of blood**   
_“We all believe in something .. greater than ourselves, even if it’s just the blind forces of chance.” “Chance favors the warrior.”_

“How did it go?”  
He hesitated for a moment.  
“Tolerable, all in all. We have been very successful at the Barriere, in Saint Antoine and in Picpus. As to the Cougourde, there have been three wounded. Two of them may not live the night.”  
“The knife?”  
“He is on the move. His man seems to be unsuspecting still.”  
“What about Enjolras?”  
A moment’s pause only.  
“He lives. Alas. There has been a distraction.”  
Again, a fraction of silence.  
“Pity. He may well be the most dangerous of all. Now things will be more difficult.”  
“Yes. But not impossible.”  
“Not impossible. That is true. Proceed then.”  
A rustling of cloth, as someone got up.  
“Very well”, he said. “We will wait a few days for things to develop and for the dust to settle. I will inform you of my next steps.”

“Cosette!”  
She passed through the hedges and branches of the enchanted garden, her steps light and careful on the dark, fertile soil. The call was only soft, but she had heard. She would always hear.  
Moonlight kissed the intricate patterns of the garden entrance, kissed the flowers, which had folded their petals for the night with loving tenderness, kissed the hair, the eyes of the man on the other side of the gate.  
She hesitated for a moment, just to take in the scene, unseen yet, watching him as his eyes darted through the green curtain before him, trying to discern if she was there, if she was coming.  
“I’m here”, she whispered, and he heard, because his hands on the gate tightened in response, and the quick movement of his eyes intensified, as he tried to pierce the patterns of dark and silver, that hid her in her white nightdress so well.  
And then, he froze. The eyes, clear like a summer morning, remained open almost in shock, their movements ceasing, his lips opening just a fraction to release a breath she hadn’t realized he had been holding.  
And then, she saw the scarlet flower of red blood blossoming on his chest.  
She thought she might have screamed, as she shot out of sleep, into a sitting position, throwing blankets and cushions in the process, but when she waited, anxiously, for something, someone in the house to stir, there was nothing, so she figured, that the scream had to have been the last thing that still belonged fully to the dream. Not like the quickening of her heartbeat that was still racing in pain and fear and anguish. Not like the horrified tightening of her chest at the picture she had seen.  
It had been a long time since her last nightmare. They had taken long to cease after she had left the Thenadiers, and there had been many a night, where she had cried herself to sleep, night by night, in the arms of the man that had become her father.  
She took a deep breath, and another one, willing the fear and anguish down. The night changed many thoughts, and it was only too clear, that it had been the events of the day, that were replaying in her mind. It would pass.  
She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to find a calm center in the tempest that was her worry, reopened them and looked around in the dark room.  
The curtains were drawn, but there were few rays of moonlight, that had found their way in, leaving a minimum of light, at least.  
It was complemented by the light coming from below the door.  
Cosette frowned. She did not know how late it was, but she had not gone to bed too early, and did have the distinctive feeling of having slept for a while.  
So he was awake again, pondering and worrying.  
Her father was a man of constant shadow. He was good to her, loved her, doted on her, and yet, there was a part of him that she would never see, never touch. Only rarely, she would see it surface, a sea of pain behind his eyes, and then she would be sent away, and he would hide, until he felt he could face her again, calm and sober, all shadows gone.  
It was his burden to carry, but more often than not, Cosette would wish she could help him, give back to him some of the goodness she had received from his hand.  
She brushed aside some blonde curls from her face. She was too disquieted; there was no thought of sleep to be had, this night. Blindly, she fished for her dressing gown, which hung at the feet of her bed, ready to take, and slipped in it. On soft feet, hardly making a sound, she left her room.  
The door to her father’s study was left ajar, the source of the light she had seen from inside coming from two oil lamps, one on his study table, the other one standing next to him, as he was sitting in one of the armchairs, disheveled, in chemise and trousers, without waistcoat or jacket, staring at something that only he could see, his eyes in silent torment.  
Slowly, Cosette approached him.  
“Papa…?”  
He flinched visibly and, after a moment’s hesitation, turned towards her in a slow, steady movement. A frown appeared on his face, and for a moment, she thought he would scold her, but then he pressed his lips together and forced some sort of calm on his face. He stood, with measured movements, and turned towards her, eyes almost impassive as he looked at her.  
But Cosette knew his black moods, had known them since she was a child, and she did not fear them. He was inaccessible during this time, but she would only have to wait to have her Papa back again, but today… today she was not sure if she had that option.  
“What is going on?” she found the courage to ask. There could be only two sources for his condition.  
The one might be a petty jealousy, for now he knew of the love between her and Marius Pontmercy; so he might harbor a fear that he might lose his precious daughter to a man, but that fear could be alleviated. Or, on the other hand, she had not forgotten the look he had shared with the assassin on Marius’ life. And now, that his secrets had become entwined with the one she loved, Cosette found that she could no longer stay silent.  
Her father, however, was unaware, and carefully stepped towards her, a tender hand touching the blond curls, which were still tangled from sleep.  
“Don’t concern yourself with it, Cosette”, he said softly. “It will be alright. Don’t worry.”  
She shook her head softly.  
“I…”, she began uncertainly, “… am sorry you found out this way about… Marius.”  
The sadness in his eyes was bone deep, and his smile seemed to hurt him, and tear him apart at the seams. And yet…  
“Again, Cosette, do not concern yourself with this. I…”, the smile took on a slightly rueful quality, “I confess, I hoped that it would be some time yet before something like this happened, but it is not to be.” He shook his head. “He is a reckless fellow, this Marius.”  
“He is the best of men”, she answered, boldly, and stepped towards her father. “He has a good heart.”  
Her father shook his head softly.  
“That I do not doubt, Cosette. He seems to be a young man of some character, but… we both know that he is one of those who stir unrest in this country, Cosette. He is reckless… and entangled in a dangerous web. My dear, my dearest daughter…” A flicker in his eyes that she could not place, gone too soon, “that is a fool’s errand you would attach your heart to.”  
How could she explain? How could she explain that his dreams, the proud way he fought for what he believed, his heart, that made him see past the barriers of the cast he was born into, past his own comforts, were part of why she loved him?  
She settled for something easier.  
“It is too late, Papa”, she whispered, softly, almost tenderly. “I love him too well for this.”  
“Foolish!” Her father burst out angrily and whirled around, turning his back on his daughter, who had flinched at this sudden show of temper. “I will not have it, Cosette! This is a foolish thing to do, and it is not like you!”  
She took a calming breath and remembered a pair of clear eyes. Remembered the way he spoke, the shouts and whispers, as he was calling to the crowd, remembered the way he whispered, urgently, to her between the gate.  
For him. Always for him.  
“Have you not raised me to be compassionate?” she whispered. “Have you not raised me to see the good in those that I meet? He is good, Papa.”  
“Possible.” He all but spat out the word. “But there is good, and then there is the law. What do you expect will happen, Cosette? Let me tell you what will happen.”  
He began to pace, and his voice was soft, almost calm, but all the more cruel for it, as he mercilessly lay out his conclusion.  
“This… upraising, that is being stirred in the city will fail. The king’s arm reaches too far. If this continues the way it goes, be it through the hands of a sinister man on a dark errant, by a stray bullet on an eventual barricade or by the hands of a merciless law – if these children continue the path they have taken, they will fall, and by whatever means, in the end, Marius will die.”  
Now he turned back to her, and his face was full of love and a sadness so deep, that it struck her to the bone.  
“I would spare you this heartache.”  
“It is too late for that, father”, she replied, her heart in her voice. “Much too late already.”  
She hesitated for a moment, but then, taking courage, took a step towards him, and a leap of faith with this. She held his gaze, and lowered her voice, to an imploring tone, her voice trembling only slightly.  
“Then help him”, she whispered. “Help them. You know who it was that attacked them. I have seen it. You know the man. You shroud yourself in secrets, Papa, and I know that there are reasons. But now… now you could to them good. Help them. Help me.” And then, softer, sadder, “help us.” It took all that was within her to hold his gaze, and she went on, afraid, if she stopped, that she might not be able to follow it through. “I know that you can… but will you not? For him… and me…?”  
For a moment, he stood motionless, his gaze fully unreadable. For a moment, Cosette saw pain resurfacing, like a powerful dragon raising its head, but then he turned, quickly and violently. His whole posture vibrated with tension, and Cosette wondered, whether she had gone too far.  
“You have no idea, what you are asking”, he said flatly. “No idea, child.” His fists clenched at his side. “Tomorrow”, he said, “we will leave for the Rue de l’Homme Armee. I suggest you pack , after you have slept.”  
Cosette, who had been caught completely unawares, stared at him in horror. Marius did not know about this second place, and he would be lost to her again.  
“What? But, Papa, I…”  
“You heard me.” Still, his voice was fully emotionless, but the firmness in it did not allow any contradiction. “And now go back to sleep. You should not be up and about in the middle of the night.”  
Her mind reeled at possible ways to change his mind, but when he turned to look at her reprovingly, she understood, that there was no swaying, no pleading, no begging in this mood. He was not to be swayed.  
All that remained was to hope, that tomorrow would be different.

The silver hall, of course, was a euphemism.  
For those, who were not prone to the code, that Patron-Minette and their associates were using, it would be highly difficult to associate the almost poetic description with the actual location – an abandoned arm of the Paris sewers, just off Place St. Michel – but the name had been given for a coin of silver, that had been found by Gueulemer some months back, and he had been bragging so much about it that the name had stuck.  
Eponine was the first to arrive, Montparnasse still at her side, and together they watched the others trail in, one by one, observing in silence first the shuffling of her father, then the silent steps of Claquesous, Gueulemer’s heavy gait and Babet’s confident stride, until they were all assembled, creatures of the underworld, and their time would begin.  
Eponine had tried to wash the blood out of her blouse with Montparnasse’s help – she certainly did not feel like answering her father’s questions as to how that particular injury came to pass – and if she moved carefully, neither would the relatively clean bandage under the torn blouse show, nor would her walk betray the hurt that she had suffered in the morning.  
It was more difficult to hide the fatigue, though. It seemed, as if the events of the day were catching up with her at the most inconvenient of times.  
Yet, she knew that protests were futile, and dangerous on top of that; and therefore she followed her accomplices, quiet as a shadow, with the practice of way too many years.

Rue d’Olivel was a short street not far from Les Invalides, in the quiet outskirts of Faubourg St. Germain, where the houses were surrounded by gardens and walls – from stone and iron, or from tangled hedges, as in the case of the place they were standing in front of right now.  
Eponine was sitting in the shade of a pear tree, that stretched its branches over the thorny hedge, throwing some shadow on the small, almost idyllically quiet street and found herself wishing for a cloudy sky.  
But there was no such luck. It was the end of May, and summer was upon them, and the skies were clear and bright, the moon almost full, shining its silver light onto the scenery. Yet, her father had not be swayed from what he intended to do that night.  
The house was relatively well accessible, surrounded only by the thorny hedges, that had several prominent gaps, big enough for a fully grown person to push through it – not without difficulty, but still much easier than climbing fences and walls – and yet, the setup of the garden and the shape of the building within belied a considerable wealth.  
A sitting duck, her father had said. An easy target.  
And as it was their habit, Eponine was made to wait outside, to watch for the dangerous eyes of the law, to warn them in case of a stray policeman coming their way and jeopardizing their plan. She had done it many times before, and there was a serenity in lingering somewhere around these beautiful, rich houses, in the quiet of the night, left to her own thoughts.  
Recently, these nights had belonged to Marius, to her dreams. She had fooled herself into believing, that one of those houses was theirs, that he was home, waiting for her to return from a midnight stroll. And she would only need to step over the threshold to see him greeting her, smiling that captivating smile of his. Or he might seek her out, wondering where she had gone, and there were arms around her waist, before she knew it, and his voice whispering in her ear: I missed you…  
“You still here?”  
Ah, yes. This night, she was not alone. However he had done it, Montparnasse had been successful in convincing her father, that four eyes would see more than two, for whatever reason, and so he kept watch with her.  
He hadn’t done that in a while, and the company was actually not so bad.  
“Mhmh”, she made an affirmative sound for lack of a better response.  
“You bored, too?”  
She had no idea, how long they had been sitting here. Time flew, when she was living in the brighter recesses of her mind, where Marius was hers and the world a good place to live in. But that was certainly none of Montparnasse’s business.  
“Yap”, she therefore lied, and he chuckled, nudging her side in a gesture of familiarity, mindful of her wounded shoulder.  
“Can think of so many more interesting things to do, hm, sweet?”  
His teeth were flashing in the near darkness, when Eponine gave him a studied withering look. This was a conversation they had had for more times that she cared to remember.  
“Drop it, ‘Parnasse.”  
He took it in his stride and sighed dramatically, getting up to stretch his legs and walked a few steps along the hedge, his gaze wandering from one side of the street to the other.  
And then he stopped.  
“Eh”, he whispered. “Ponine. Come here.”  
There was something worrying in his voice, and she complied, followed him up to one of the rifts in the hedge, where he was pointing to something on the floor. She crouched beside it to get a better look and saw, in the ground that was still moist from the rain in the last days, the remnants of a small bootprint, fairly fresh, as far as she could tell.  
And yet, none of them had taken this entrance into the mansions garden.  
Uneasiness crept over her and she found it mirrored in Montparnasse’s eyes.  
And before she could say something, the silence was torn apart by a blood-curdling scream.  
Eponine reacted on instinct.  
Maybe it was the strange day that lay behind her, the fatigue and sense of surrealism that had come over her after the events of the hours past. Or maybe, it was the memory of a room full of youthful enthusiasm, every breath speaking of hope and bravery, the firm conviction of we have to do something, we cannot stand back, waving through the room like a carefully crafted spell.  
Whatever it was, instead of taking flight into the streets, Eponine rushed through the hedge towards the building, with half a mind of helping her comrades and half a mind of finding out what’s going on, ignoring the surprised, albeit quiet call of warning uttered by Montparnasse. She dimly realized, that he followed her, trying to catch up with her, but Eponine was quick, always quick, and she reached the door long before he did.  
It was slightly ajar and she pushed through it without hesitation.  
The inside of the house was in turmoil. There was clanking somewhere on the ground floor, and distinct sounds of quick steps and the crashing of wood from above. Eponine, in a split second, decided and bolted up the stairs, taking two steps for one, while from below, she heard the voice of her father cursing violently, only broken by quick, albeit less loud talking from Babet.  
But there was no time, and she paid it no heed, instead turning towards the source of the sounds in the upper floor. From the streets, she could hear more shouting. More steps. A whistle.  
The police.  
Silently, she cursed, but there was no time, no time at all, and she reacted on pure impulse, pushing to the heart of the source and took a step directly into someone else’s hell.  
The bedroom was lit by the moon shining through the window, but even this poor light only insufficiently obstructed the gruesome scenery before her.  
The door to the adjacent balcony was ajar, curtains flaying in the warm summer wind. The moon shone on a broad bed, where, motionlessly, a young man was sprayed, eyes directed towards the heavenly source of light, as if he, as a last deed in life, had already turned towards the heavenly pastures that he with great certainty believed in.  
His blood, remnants of it still flowing from the gruesome wound in his throat, had drenched the sheets until there was no life left in him.  
In the corner of the room, wearing a blood-soaked nightdress, stood a young woman, a washing bowl raised in a defensive gesture at the dwarf before her, who was approaching her with the stealth and agility of long practice.  
The moonlight caught the flash of yet another knife.  
The room showed signs of a desperate fight. A vase was lying on the floor, shattered, a pillow had spread all its feathers through the room, being ripped apart by a vicious slash of the knife, and the nightstand had been overthrown, flacons and pots strewn everywhere.  
Eponine did not hesitate. There was a walking stick, at ready, next to the shell of a man and she gripped it, using the fact that the woman and the assaulter were mingled in a desperate fight of their own and there was no time to dwell on that, or on anything, no time at all, and she took the stick in her good hand, aimed, and brought it onto the dwarf’s head with strength and vigor.  
He fell like a stone.  
For seconds, that were an eternity, the two young women stared at each other.  
From below, she could hear shouting, and the door on the ground being torn fully open, as the police entered the house. Time was running out.  
She had to get out of here, preferably not bound and chained. She could hear that they started searching the house, could hear shouts and tumbles as they found something – someone? – and things got nasty.  
The woman had seen her. She might scream any minute, scream for help. But she didn’t.  
Between them, the dwarf stirred.  
The woman blinked. The turmoil from below grew louder.  
“Let us run.”  
For a split second, Eponine wondered if she had really heard this. But there was a haunted look in the woman’s eyes, as they darted about the room, obviously listening to the turmoil in the same way that Eponine was. In a flash of intuition, Eponine understood, that she was scared. Scared of everything that was going on down there, police and burglars alike. So who was she to object to a proposition as sensible as this?  
Eponine lurched forward to grab her arm and pull her with her to the balcony.  
They found, that there was a hook and rope attached to the bars, obviously the foreseen path of intrusion by the dwarf. Eponine threw a quick look down.  
The balcony was pointing towards the rear side of the house, and the police had not yet found their way into the back part of the garden, seeing as they were busy trying to arrest Patron-Minette in the lower parts of the house.  
For a fleeting moment, Eponine wondered, where Montparnasse was.  
But there was no time.  
The woman had already started to climb down, but Eponine, mindful of her shoulder, decided to jump the one story down, instead of tediously scrambling with one arm.  
Pain shot up her legs at landing on the floor, but she managed it fairly silently – at least compared to the turmoil inside the house – and just a moment later, the woman stood beside her, breathing heavily.  
Dirt had joined the blood on her nightshirt, and all of a sudden Eponine wondered, whether she was wounded.  
But like this morning, at the market, finding a safe place was the first objective of the day, and so they darted through a back part of the hedge, leading to the Rue de la Traverse, which was, luckily, deserted.  
Aimlessly, the two began to run northwards, away from the turmoil, a gamine in a dirty blouse, and a rich, young woman in a bloody nightdress, and only, when the latter ran out of breath, taking wheezy gasps and stumbling along, they slowed and took a moment to assess their situation.  
Eponine’s thoughts raced, as she wondered about a possible safe haven. She was sorely in need of asking a few questions to the woman she had had all intentions to rob. But the nightly streets of Paris were no place to do so.  
So she quickly sifted through the hiding places she knew, wondering if she wanted to betray the hideouts of the Paris underworld to this woman of good breeding, until she remembered the most obvious solution of all.  
Some of us, at least, will stay at 7, Rue Pascal today. Know, that you will be welcome there.  
And it was not even far from where they were.  
“Come.” Eponine took the arm of her charge who had not recovered, but nodded none the less, in an attempt at bravery. “I know a place to stay.”

Rue Pascal number 7 was a tenement of the better kind, three stories high, façade intact and intrinsically carved; one of the buildings that were in Saint Michel, but dreamt of Faubourg Saint Germain, instead.  
Eponine tried to discern the number of flats with an experienced eye. Six at least, two per floor, one on each side.  
But which?  
She scanned the façade and found her answer, on the second floor, where a room was dimly lit with flickering light and the curtain was swinging softly as someone moved behind it.  
Not very stealthy, bourgeois boys….  
She entered the tenement, and as soon as the door had closed behind her, she could hear a far-carrying whisper from above.  
“Second floor”, a voice said that she could recognize as coming from Enjolras, and even though she did not need it, she complied and hurried up the stairs, her silent shadow right behind her.  
The door of the flat was opened already, and she was being greeted by the blonde rebel leader, who stepped away from the opening as soon as she reached the landing to allow her entrance. He looked tired in the dim, flickering light, his blonde curls slightly mussed. There was a worried frown on his face as he greeted her entrance softly with her name, and the irritating “Mademoiselle” in front of it.  
In the room behind him, she could see Combeferre just getting up from his resting place on a chaiselongue, blinking owlishly, hair slightly tangled as he ran his hands through it in an attempt to clear his thoughts and chase the remnants of dreams away.  
And then, his gaze fell on the woman Eponine had brought with her.  
He paled, as if he had seen a ghost.


	12. Girl of shadows, boys of summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Éponine hides in a strange place with an even stranger charge and realizes a few things along the way

**Chapter 11: Girl of shadows, boys of summer**   
_“It changed the future .. and it changed us. It taught us that we have to create the future .. or others will do it for us. It showed us that we have care for one another, because if we don’t, who will? And that true strength sometimes comes from the most unlikely places. Mostly, though, I think it gave us hope .. that there can always be new beginnings .. even for people like us.”_

“Hélène…”  
Combeferre’s painful whisper was lost in the noise of a key being turned in the lock, as Enjolras closed the door to the apartment, but the almost vanished sound elicited a slight, flinching movement from the woman standing half behind her, and that got Eponine’s attention.  
Still slightly out of breath from the exertions of the last minutes, she turned around to get another good look at the woman that she had dragged half across Paris, on an impulse that she still had a hard time explaining to herself.  
She was a small woman, half a head shorter than Eponine, a slightly plump figure with soft, tender curves. Her face, on the other hand, was that of a little bird, all pointy angles and large, quick, flashing eyes, now dulled to a dark brown in the semi-darkness of the room, giving a strange contrast to her soft shilouette. Brown, long hair was taken together in a braid falling down deep into her back, but a few curls had escaped and stood around her face in disarray, smeared with dried blood.  
Blood was also on her face, painting strange patterns around her left cheek and her nose, and on the previously pristine, white nightdress, that was carefully crafted, of light, beautiful lace, and spoke of a wealth that Eponine had not even known when she was still the cherished child of two well-off innkeepers.  
She was panting, from the exertion of the minutes past, her eyes still wild and scared, but she was silent, taking deep breaths as if to calm herself.  
“In the name of all, that’s good, true and holy, what happened?”  
Combeferre, all drowsiness chased from his eyes, still disheveled, but wide awake, shot towards the two, giving a quick, appreciating glance at Eponine, finding her essentially unchanged from few hours before, except for the sling, that had been dispatched of, and turned back to the other arrival, stopping shortly before her, as if not daring to step any closer, frozen in mid-movement.  
“M… Madame de Cambout?” he asked, his voice not quite as sure as it had been, when Eponine had last met him. “Are… you hurt?”  
The woman flinched, as if awaking from a dream, and took to looking at her hands, watched the lines of blood there, carefully fletching her fingers.  
“I…”, she said, dazed, “I don’t know.” She looked down, at the blood on her dress, frowning, and then shaking her head, softly only, but not without determination. “No”, she corrected herself. “No, I don’t think so.”  
“Come”, he said, taking her arm gently. “Sit down.”  
Combeferre maneuvered her to the couch, carefully, putting a hand on her shoulder and another one on her arm, softly as if she might break at the slightest touch, and placed her there, keen eyes checking her dress for fresh blood, but all of it seemed to be dry and turned a rusty brown already.  
“You seem to have the uncanny ability to find yourself in the heat of things at the most interesting moments, Mademoiselle.”  
Enjolras’ voice was calm compared to that of his friend, and as Eponine turned towards him, his face was unreadable, as he stood next to her, arms folded before him, his golden curls darker than usual in the dim light.  
She was not sure how to respond to that. She was not even sure, if it was some sort of address at her, or just a remark, spoken into the void that was the room, and that was there on its own accord, regardless of whether there was a listener or not.  
However, the decision was taken from her by another voice, coming from the door leading further into the apartment, where, upon turning to the deep inhale, followed by words, she saw the boy that she had seen in the Jardin du Luxembourg earlier that day, accompanying Marius and the others.  
“What happened here?!” he asked, and while Combeferre had been all concern, Eponine’s charge seemed to be mostly shocked and confused, and Enjolras showed hardly any emotion at all, on the young man’s face and in his voice, fear was evident and plain for the world to see.  
“That”, Enjolras nodded, “is indeed the question of the hour, Lamarin.”

A few minutes later, all the current inhabitants of the apartment had assembled around the couch and the corresponding armchairs. Since there were five of them now, Enjolras was standing at the window again to leave the armchairs to Eponine and Lamarin, while Combeferre and Hélène de Cambout – since this was apparently the name of the woman - occupied the couch, the blankets, that had served as a provisory bedding being thrown over the back rest, forgotten.  
Hélène was methodically washing hands and face with a bowl of water, and a soft cloth, that Combeferre had brought from the small stove, as soon as she had been able to convince him, that she was on the whole unharmed and not in immediate need of medical attention. She had accepted it gratefully, to tidy up at least as far as possible given the fact that the apartment harbored no possibility for her to change into cleaner, less bloodstained clothes.  
For the first time since the events in Rue d’Olivel, Eponine had time to ponder her situation. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, she had acted in the way that, given her usual standards, was certainly not on the clever side.  
Her quick reaction had spared her a brush-in with the police – a grace that probably did not extend to the rest of her accomplices – and she certainly was not sad, that Hélène de Cambout had not fallen prey to the attacker – but sitting again in the middle of the revolutionary friends of Marius, who by her own standards were a group that one better steered clear of, was not how she had intended the evening to end.  
She pushed away the thought, that if she had planned to avoid them for good, she had surely done a poor job of it. There certainly would have been other ways to deal with the situation.  
Yet, the deed was done, and there was another unspoken credo of Eponine’s, that came all too handy in this situation.  
Don’t look back. Ever.  
So she turned her attention back to the others present, who sat around the table in almost companionable silence.  
Hélène began to speak, unexpectedly, as Eponine still wondered how the students would breach the subject of the events of this night – and whether any account was expected from her as well, which would be unpleasant, because she had very little idea how she might explain herself.  
“A man –a dwarf, for lack of a better word for it - has broken into our house this night”, she began. Her voice was almost calm, almost composed, hardly betraying the turmoil that could be seen only by her trembling hands that methodically cleaned the traces of blood from one another. “He was intent on murder.”  
She did not look at them, but gazed at her hands, as she continued.  
“I woke up when Alexandre was already dead. He cut his throat and…”, her voice hitched, and she raised her hand over mouth and nose, her breath hitching for just a tiny instant as she blinked hectically, fighting for composure with all, that was in her.  
A movement, almost hidden, drew Eponine’s attention towards Combeferre, who was fletching the fingers of his right hand as if uncertain, but doing nothing in the end. Eponine frowned slightly at the gesture, but Hélène continued, and so did the splashing and squishing of water as she resumed the cleaning.  
“He was intent on killing me as well.”  
Eponine realized that bringing her hand to her face had left watery, pale red fingerprints around Hélène’s mouth and nose.  
“If Mademoiselle would not have appeared out of nowhere, he probably would have.”  
She raised her head to look at Eponine, and the gamine recognized the dead look in her eyes, shock and pain, ugly sisters, but layered with a strange sort of composed determination.  
“Yes”, Enjolras prompted from the window. “Mademoiselle seems to make a habit of that kind of thing, lately.” He sounded almost cross, and Eponine turned around to see if he was, but his face was carefully neutral, as he returned her gaze, only the slightest of frowns appearing on his forehead. “At least this time she had the sense to escape unscathed.”  
He broke the gaze abruptly – and Eponine realized once more, only in its absence, the piercing quality that his regard was able to take – and turned towards Hélène.  
“I am profoundly sorry for your loss, Madame”, he began. “Especially since I fear we have to claim some part in it. I would not have thought that they would go as far as target you.”  
“If we’d known…”, Combeferre added, but he never got to finish, because Hélène interrupted.  
“Don’t”, she said, and the determination of her eyes showed in her voice, calming him instantly. “Don’t.” And then softer. “Don’t make me regret it. We did what we did out of conviction. What happened does not make it wrong.”  
Silence settled between them, her words still hanging in the air. Finally, it was the boy that broke it.  
“De Cambout…?” he asked. “Is that not…”  
“Yes.” Enjolras nodded. “Madame de Cambout and her hus… her late husband among other things own a significant number of print presses here in Paris. It is where most of our pamphlets have been printed. The Cambouts’ support in this area has been invaluable.”  
“And Monsieur de Cambout presides over the consortium, that publishes Le Globe”, Combeferre continued. “The newspaper most sympathetic to our cause”, he added towards Eponine, and presumably for her benefit, and Eponine felt slightly offended.  
“I know that”, she bit back. Of course, she was not exactly a daily reader of the paper, but when she came across one, she had been known to look into it. Marius kept a copy, from time to time, and she had read some articles in it, to be able to show him, that she understood.  
However, how much like the luck of her father to target exactly that house exactly that night.  
“Indeed”, Enjolras interjected, throwing her a glance that was almost surprised. He took to pacing, slowly, across the room, reminding her once more of a tiger caged, unable to be truly confined, restless in its captivity. “Know that this is not the first attack that has happened today. Several revolutionary groups have been targeted, in different settings, by different people; and with varying success. We have escaped, for the time being, but some members of the Barriere du Maine group and in Saint Antoine have been killed. We know the Cougourde was attacked as well…”, he nodded in deference to Marcel Lamarin, “but it is unclear, if, and how many victims there have been. The murder of your husband seems to be the latest deed in this row of attacks on our numbers.” He raised his head, eyes blazing. “It is time we took action against this.”  
“There was police in our house.”  
While Enjolras had spoken, Hélène hat managed to clean her face, looking now slightly less wild as she raised her head to look at him. The comment had come out of nowhere. And Eponine could not hold back the question.  
“Why did you want to run from them, anyway?” she asked. Hélène turned towards her, frowning slightly.  
“In short”, she answered, with surprising earnestness and honesty, “because I was afraid. I am no fool; I can imagine why someone would target Alexandre and me. Would you have trusted the police, if you were in my position?”  
Eponine could not help snorting in disgust, and Hélène, misunderstanding her general disgust towards the police for sympathy with her situation, nodded.  
“Exactly. In addition”, she continued, “unless I am very much mistaken, I have recognized in you a friend of Marius Pontmercy.” There was the sad hint of a smile around her lips, gone in the twinkle of an eye. “It was less of a gamble than what one might think.”  
“Oh.” Eponine had not considered that. “I see.” She had no idea, where the woman might have seen her, but then, she had been at Marius’ side fairly often.  
There was a certain irony in being the trustworthy one, as opposed to the police.  
In another world, it would have been amusing.

Sometime later, silence had settled again in the small flat, that now, housing five people started to feel cramped indeed.  
Enjolras and Combeferre had convinced Hélène to sleep in the bed in the other room – despite her protestations that her soiled clothing would ruin the bed – and Combeferre had taken an armchair in view of the door kept open, just in case. Both were already sleeping soundly, as well as Lamarin, who had taken the other armchair and curled up, almost like a boy, snoring softly.  
Only Eponine, placed on the couch, was wide awake.  
Not that her body was not tired – good lord, it was tired, and the couch was the most comfortable bedding she had had in a while – but thoughts and images of the strange day past would not let her sleep. What had started out as an ordinary day had seen her hurt, and threatened, her family presumably caught by the police and her, now lying in the flat of a rich bourgeois, that felt more like a castle under siege than everything else.  
And he was the watchman on the tower.  
Enjolras stood at the window, gazing out into the street, as he had done before they arrived, a pistol attached to his belt. He was motionless, lost in his own thoughts, his face bathed in the moonlight coming from the outside, throwing the clear lines of his face in sharp contrast. He was a comely man, but the eerie light made him look slightly haggard, and in a strange way different to the man she had seen and known before.  
Somehow, the night did not suit him. He was a man of day, of summer and glory.  
The only outward sign of his unrest was the movement of his fingers, tapping silently against the pistol at his belt, betraying, that the studied calm was indeed nothing more than this – a study, probably for the benefit of those sleeping.  
And yet, he stared at the moon as if by sheer determination alone, he could will dawn to come closer.  
Moments ticked by unnoticed.  
After a while, without warning, he turned around abruptly, and Eponine, too surprised to react, did not manage to feign sleep quickly enough.  
Realizing he was being watched, Enjolras raised a brow.  
“Should you not be sleeping, Mademoiselle?” he asked, softly, as to not awaken his comrades, who, at least, had the benefit of rest.  
Eponine pondered the situation for a moment, and then decided that if she could not sleep, she might as well get up. Carefully, as to not hurt her shoulder too much, she got to her feet and stepped over to the man at the window.  
“Will you stop calling me that?”  
He raised both brows.  
“What?”  
“Mademoiselle”, she snapped.  
“Why?”  
Eponine shook her head vigorously.  
“Because I’m not.”  
He took a deep breath and directed his gaze back towards the street, face impassive, voice neutral.  
“That is a matter of perspective, I assume.” He seemed to ponder this for a while, before continuing. “It is an address of honor, in the first order. It is a question of politeness, and of respect. There may be those, who associate it with a certain cast, or a place in the society. I am not one of them. I associate it with a person. And hence, you merit the address.”  
She recognized the weaving of words, the intrinsic elegance to his speech that he also used in public, but while standing in front of a crowd, he was practically radiating determination and charisma, now there was only a certain neutral calm. As if he didn’t think it necessary.  
Not worth the effort.  
Somehow, this thought put her on the edge.  
And still, what he had said was a strange perspective, like a view through the gallery into another world. She would scorn his generosity, his mercy, at giving her a polite address like a bone to a dog, but maybe it was the soberness with which he had spoken, that convinced her that he actually meant what he said. And still…  
“You don’t know me.”  
That earned her a quick look, before he turned back to the motionless scenery below.  
“You saved my life and that of my friends”, he retorted. “That is enough to know.”  
She did not know how to contradict that.  
It was him, who broke the silence in the end.  
“Why this evening?”  
He was watching her again, voice still quiet as to wake no one, but this time, he did make an effort, and Eponine felt slightly uneasy under the scrutiny of the clear, strong blue eyes. Not to mention that she did not know what he was talking about.  
“Why what?” she therefore asked  
He fully turned to face her, folding his arms before his chest, leaning against the windowsill.  
“This morning I understand”, he explained. “Pontmercy is…”, the slightest of hesitations that would have her flare up in anger, but he pressed on, “your friend. Hence your actions this morning. But why did you help Madame de Cambout?”  
From all that she had come to know of him, she should have expected him to plunge directly to the heart of the matter.  
She had not and thus felt off-foot at the answer. Her subconscious supplied alternatives – philanthropy, fear of her own, coincidence – but what came out in the end was something completely different.  
“Don’t want them to win.”  
There was a truthful ring to these words that actually surprised her. She was not sure what had made her think that the attacker on the young woman and her husband had belonged to the same group that had followed them in the market this morning. Maybe it had been the randomness of the attack. Or the determination, to go straight for the bedroom, no detours, intent on murder, not on robbery.  
Or just intuition.  
Or what it was, that made her scorn them enough to feel intend on opposition.  
Maybe it was the fear for Marius.  
Whatever the reason for her comment, there was a twitching of lips from Enjolras at her response, and his eyes lit up, for just a moment, in a memory of the charisma she knew he was capable of.  
“They won’t”, he said, with firm conviction.  
And still, somehow the comment caught her unawares.  
She was not sure, what she had thought about Marius and his friends, about all the speeches, and leaflets, and dreams of glory and upraising, but it was here, in this semi-darkness, looking at the face of the leader of them all, that she realized, that at least he was deadly serious about it.  
She had believed Marius, with his bright eyes full of dreams and earnestness, but she would have believed him anything. To see that the enthusiasm, that she saw in his eyes were not his own alone, but could be found in the face of his friends as well was… unexpected.  
And she did not really know how to deal with it.  
If life had taught her one thing, then it was that things had a tendency to take a turn for the worse. She had fallen hard, so brutally hard, from the grace that was her early childhood, and the concept of hopes or – let alone – dreams were alien to her.  
Which was not exactly true. She had hoped and dreamt for Marius – but like all her wishes, this had turned to a nightmare soon enough.  
It was disquieting to see the conviction, that hope and faith was worth the struggle, in the eyes of the earnest, serious man before her.  
“You really do believe that.”  
The words were out, before she had the power to stop them, but if he was offended, he did not show it.  
“What about you?” he asked.  
She did not know how to answer that. In truth, she should have been expecting that question, but again, his tendency to cut to the heart of the matter – as opposed to Marius, who preferred to dance around it, carefully and playfully; and as opposed to her parents and their associates, who avoided deeper conversations altogether – had caught her off-guard.  
And yet, his face was not judgmental. Rather, she had the impression, that there was a curious note to the look that held her in her place effortlessly.  
She dared honesty.  
“I don’t know.”  
He held her gaze for another moment, before he nodded and turned to half sit on the windowsill, his gaze wandering through the room that had gone from his refuge to a stronghold of sorts.  
“So, Mademoiselle Eponine, what will you do when the sun rises? Will you retreat back to the shadows that you came from?”  
The phrasing was brutal, even though the tone was not, and she would have almost flinched at the truth of it. That was, what she was. The girl of shadows. Nothing more. The whisper that followed Marius to do his every bidding.  
But he continued, still soft, but now, there was a new quality to his voice, determination mingled with something almost elusive, that seemed fitting on a stage, but strange here, with only her to hear.  
“Or will you take the chance to shine? To take your fate into your own hands, to be one of those, that will no longer endure? You have shown remarkable determination today, and you have done me, have done us a great service.” He turned his gaze to look at her again, with surprising conviction. “I find it hard to believe that the shadows are where you belong.”  
Now, she seemed to be worth the effort, worth the conviction, that colored his every sentence. For a moment, Eponine was lost for words, both at the presumption on his part, and on the actual meaning behind the words, that, if possible were more brutal than what he said before.  
She was Eponine, Eponine Jondrette, or Thénardier, and she was a creature of the underworld, like her father, her mother and those she mingled with.  
She could not afford the fickle concept of hope.  
“You know nothing about me”, she repeated finally, almost hostile, and he shrugged, averting his gaze again in an infuriatingly calm manner.  
“I know that you saved four lives today.” He kept coming back to the same thing, like a dog worrying a bone. “And I find it hard to believe that you are satisfied with the lot that you are dealing with.” He shrugged again. “But in this you are indeed right. It is a belief of mine – nothing more. So the choice is all yours, Mademoiselle.”  
He crossed his arms before his chest again, eyes pinned to the door.  
“After what Madame de Cambout and you have told us, I assume that the police will have the attacker of Rue d’Olivel in their precious custody, as we speak. I have half a mind of trying to have a conversation with the man tomorrow.”  
He smiled a quick, grim smile that did not reach his eyes.  
“Would you care to join me?”  
Eponine frowned. That proposition of his was the spark to a powder keg. She was pretty certain, that not only the dwarf was in police custody, but her accomplices as well. On the other hand, in the company of someone like Enjolras, it would be much easier to get into the prison to check on their welfare – and out again, which was even more important. And yet…  
“Is that clever?” she asked. “You’re probably not popular with them, are you?”  
He snorted softly.  
“You may or may not know that like Marius, my chosen field of study is the law. To see its enforcement put to practice for educational purposes is… not unheard of.”  
She smiled despite herself.  
“Crafty”, she had to admit, and she thought, that she saw a quick flash of amused pride in his clear eyes. He turned back to her fully.  
“So?”  
She hesitated. She could count on her father and his associates having the good sense to keep quiet when she appeared in company of someone like Enjolras – as to not ruin whatever plan she might be harboring to get them out again – and maybe, just maybe, a small back corner of her mind supplied, there was some truth in his words.  
He was a boy of summer, and Eponine could use a little sun.  
If nothing else, she might be able to help her accomplices. She shrugged.  
“Why not”, she replied casually, and he nodded once, settling the matter.  
“Very well.”  
He raised his head to the faint sound of a church bell coming from afar.  
The four deep beats heralded the arrival of the morning.  
Enjolras ran a hand through his blonde curls, and for a moment, Eponine thought she saw relief on his features.  
“Four o’clock”, he confirmed. “It is time to wake Lamarin and get a few hours’ sleep ourselves. An undertaking such as ours tomorrow would preferably be taken with a clear head.”  
He was right in that, at least.  
But when Eponine curled up on the chaiselongue again – of course he insisted to take Lamarin’s place in the armchair, while leaving the sofa to her – she felt his gaze linger on her for a moment, curiously, before he drifted to sleep, finally, and dreams found her swiftly and mercilessly as well, as if there had been a matter pending, that now was resolved.


	13. A story of good men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras and Javert both attempt at investigation and finally meet

**Chapter 12: A story of good men**   
_“It does prove though how everything is a matter of perspective. You see what you think is daylight, and you assume it’s morning. Take it away, you think it’s night. Offer you a sandwich, if it’s convenient, you’ll think it’s mid-day. The truth is fluid, the truth is subjective“_

Inspector Javert had never liked the Necker hospital.  
There was a certain trepidation to be found in the company of the sick, in the painful moans and despairing wails of those doomed to a slow, agonizing death, or even those chosen few, that were able to make it out of such a place alive.  
But this was not, what made him pause, as he stood at the entrance of the hospital, it’s winged doors open to him without any hindrance, and not because he was an agent of the police, but simply because he was a man on an errand, that had brought him to these gates. Javert had always been, and was ever suspicious of charity.  
His belief in the merit of a person was as absolute as his belief in the retribution of good deeds. Those, who were abiding by the law, by the rules of all that was good and true did not need… charity.  
Of course, the hospital was not dedicated to charity alone. Even assuming the rich patrons that it was without a doubt having, there was a majority of patients, that did indeed pay for the services the hospital offered to them – as was their due. At least, that was a small grace.  
His work, however, directed his steps to this place more often, that he would have it, had he been completely free in his decisions. He had seen enough sickness and pollution in his life to numb the impact of the impression it gave, and routine had softened both the wrath at the sloth of those under charity and the trepidation, that the presence of dying people brought.  
It was all a matter of habit, after all.  
The patient he was currently going to, at least, would probably be among those, who paid for their time in this place, at least.  
Which, on the whole, did not improve much his personality in the eyes of the inspector.  
Jacques Morier, like the Virille brothers he had found at the Barriere du Maine the day before, was a troublemaker of the highest order. Outspoken at university, insolent and proud in voicing his opinions, reckless and angry, charismatic and dangerous to a fault.  
Still, he had been the victim of a crime to be resolved, and this was, what brought him here.  
He was directed to the west wing of the second floor of the hospital and a young woman in a simple dress and an apron obligingly showed him towards the room that Morier had been placed in. Here, in the west wing, the corridors were high and lit by the June sun in all its glory, and the room that he entered was spacious and bright, only four beds scattered over the room, three of which were empty.  
In the fourth one, there was Morier, a man of twenty-three, with the dark locks and suntanned skin of the Provence fields and hills, a man, tall, when he was standing, and delicate in built, but strong in appearance.  
And currently feverish enough to be hovering on the brink of consciousness.  
A doctor, a seasoned man with graying temples and calm demeanor, looked up at Javert’s entrance and took a few steps towards him, as if to ward him off, but a quick show of his badge of office convinced the man to rethink his actions. A frown appeared on the doctor’s forehead, as he nodded slowly.  
“I understand, inspector”, he said without Javert having to explain anything. “I’ll have you know that he is very weak, though.” He threw a quick glance at the young man in the bed. “The night has been… difficult.”  
Javert followed his gaze and found himself being watched in turn, from tired, feverish, yet alert dark eyes.  
“Will he live?” he asked, and the doctor shrugged, his response soft as not for the patient to hear. “That is in god’s hands alone”, he answered. “All I would implore you is to keep your questions and presence to the minimum. I understand the need of a questioning, but please remember that he is a man who made a narrow escape from death.”  
“I am aware”, Javert answered, slightly impatient. “Which is why I need his answers now.”  
The doctor seemed to be on the brink of a reply, but decided against it and nodded.  
“I understand”, he said again, sorrowful. “I will leave you to it, then. I will leave Marie in the room, in case his condition worsens.”  
Javert was indeed not joyful about this, but he would not meddle needlessly with the doctor’s domain and nodded absent-mindedly, as the young woman that had led him here settled unobtrusively into a chair at the door.  
The doctor bid him farewell and left. And then, it was just Morier and himself.  
Javert stepped closer to the bed and was met with the courageous, yet futile remnants of a glare. Of course, Morier knew him. He would have been disappointed, if things were otherwise.  
“Inspector.” His voice was rough and feeble, a slightly breathy quality to it, and Javert nodded.  
“Monsieur.” The boy was the son of a wealthy merchant, after all.  
“To what”, Morier began, doing his best to give his words a cold bite, “do I owe the pleasure?”  
Javert refrained from rolling his eyes in annoyance with some effort. He had no time for childish games.  
“What happened in Issy?”  
To his credit, Morier closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. And when he met Javert’s gaze again, the attitude was gone, chased away, replaced by a dull, quiet look that did not suit him at all. With his dark locks plastered to his sweaty forehead, and his breath going in labored gasps, he had lost a lot of his imposing manners.  
“There was a fair”, he began, with visible difficulty. “At the outskirts, near the old Ducreuil carrière…”  
He swallowed, with difficulty, and gathered strength for his next words.  
“A band of gypsies…”, he continued, “some musicians. A few stands.”  
Javert nodded quickly. He was aware of that sort of merriment, sprouting here and there, loved by the simpler folk and ignored by the law. Disgusting…  
“I met there… with some friends.”  
Students, however, were not quite the usual crowd at these gatherings. Unless…  
Javert snorted in disgust.  
“Of course”, he said, coolly, but Morier was beyond being baited, as if his small stand at the beginning of their conversation had used up whatever force he had.  
“There was a juggler.” Morier was forcing out the words with a sort of desperate determination now. “He was good. Five balls. And then knifes.” He closed his eyes, gathering his strength. “He started throwing them at us… so quick…”  
Javert frowned softly. That, at least, was a fairly innovative way of murder, he had to admit. Also highly ineffective, since there had been three students, that had been brought to the Necker, and none of them dead yet.  
“What did he look like.”  
Morier shrugged and his face contorted in pain.  
“Pain… ted face”, he managed, and raised a trembling hand to his own features, almost like in demonstration. “White… red lips… black eyes… a jester.” He blinked. “I probably would… not recognize him.”  
Javert nodded, if only to himself. There was a surprising anonymity in a remarkable outfit, he knew. It was a rarely exploited feat, but none the less effective for it.  
“Middle height”, Morier continued. “Slender. Wearing… a cap.”  
His face had taken on a more sickly pallor, but he pressed on. “Everyone ran. Saw him… take for the city… then… black.”  
He closed his eyes and fought for breath, sweat on his forehead and his frame slightly trembling in exertion.  
Javert heard the rustling of cloth and turned to find Marie standing next to him, looking at the patient with worried eyes.  
“I think that would be enough, Monsieur L’Inspecteur”, she said, her voice soft, even if her words were insolent. Javert raised his brows, but she stepped towards the young man and took a careful look at him, hand on his pulse first, then raising one of his lids. “He lost consciousness, Monsieur L’Inspecteur. He cannot answer your questions now.” Her words were very sober, without reprimand or anger, just stating the facts and that was something that Javert could accept.  
“Very well”, he said. “Then later, maybe.”  
“Maybe”, she concurred, drawing the blankets around the trembling frame of the young man. “Let us hope for this.”  
But Javert, unfamiliar with the concept of something as fickle as hope, turned to leave with only the most absentminded of greetings to the young nurse.  
One down.  
Two to go.

The walk from Joly’s apartment, where they had stepped by to check on their friends and relay to them on the events of the night, to La Force was a relatively short one, however, one that Enjolras intended to put to good use.  
The day and night past had opened up a lot of questions, and while he was hoping that he might find some answers in questioning who Hélène and Eponine had called “the dwarf”, there were a couple of things he would have clarified before.  
Enjolras did not like situations that were left to the vague.  
“Mademoiselle, one moment please.”  
She was one step ahead of him, moving through the morning crowds and merging with them showing a skill that eluded him, but she heard him and stopped to turn on her heel. She watched him warily, dark eyes wavering between curiosity and suspicion.  
“Before we enter La Force, I will have to ask you one thing”, he began, and could see her retreating without even a single step. She was a skittish creature – he surely had realized that – careful in her dealings, and probably rightfully so.  
Another of those fetters that had no right to be in this world.  
“I need to know why you were at the Cambouts’ house yesterday.”  
The answer was swift, fairly impolite and determined.  
“None of your business.”  
Which, in a way, explained everything.  
Enjolras closed his eyes for a moment. There was no use in showing her his annoyance that threatened to overwhelm him in an instant of weakness, quickly realized and quickly dispelled.  
“Mademoiselle”, he rephrased, out of habit, forgetting that she had made clear that she despised this address and why. The reason had been an understandable one, and thus one that Enjolras was inclined to respect, but the reflexes of society, his own personal set of fetters, were engrained too deep to ignore. “I bear you no ill will.”  
The reasons, why she could have been at the Cambouts’ house, in the middle of the night, were preciously few, but this was not the point.  
Her face was closed, icy, and her posture belied tension. Enjolras sighed, soundlessly. This was not what he had intended. It may be understandable – it was difficult to judge what he knew from her from the bits and pieces that Marius had conveyed, but it was certain to know that her life had not been an easy one. Disrespect led to dejection, which in turn led to distrust to everything that may be of good intent.  
A vicious circle happening too often. More fetters, indeed.  
“We will be going into a place that is dangerous – for me, certainly, but I suspect, for you as well.”  
She frowned, her face softening just the slightest fraction. Good. She was not stupid. And beginning to understand. There was hope yet. He chose to continue. “I mean you no harm”, he continued again. Somewhere, in the back recesses of his mind, there was a memory of Combeferre saying ‘it’s obvious to you, my friend, I know, but that does not extend to everyone’… and Combeferre’s words were usually worth paying attention to. He carefully phrased his next sentences, having no intention to chase her away. “I have said it before – I do feel indebted to you for your deeds of yesterday and this night, and I stand by my word. However, to enter this particular lion’s den, we must be certain, that we will be walking the same road, I am afraid. I will not pass judgment – not now, not on you – but I need to know.”  
She hesitated for a moment. Cocking her head, she mustered him, as if uttering a silent question he did not know how to answer. But whatever she found in his gaze – which was slightly confused and hence not as steady as he would have it – it seemed to suffice.  
“We were trying to rob her, them, alright? So what now?”  
A challenge, clearly placed before him. She dared him to despise her. Yet, he would not do her this favor. In fact, Enjolras was neither surprised nor shocked. He knew very little of this friend of Marius, but he knew more on the trials and tribulations of their times.  
Even Gavroche, loved by all of them, stole to make his living.  
And apart from the knowledge, that circumstances drove people to do desperate things, he also had a goal in mind. He had not seen the attacker, but Eponine had, which would make her a valuable asset at what he intended to do. And there was something in the determination of the girl, in her fierce resourceful fighting, rather like a tomcat clawing its way to freedom that could be put to better use than robbery or petty crimes.  
“Who’s we?”  
For a moment, she stared at him in surprise.  
“What?”  
Carefully, he repeated.  
“Who is we?”  
She blinked, obviously trying to regain her footing. Thoughts were chasing one another across her face; anger, curiosity, and a sort of defiance that made her raise her chin proudly to counter his gaze.  
“Some friends of mine.”  
“Who are now in jail”, he concluded what he had in fact been aiming at. She shrugged and nodded.  
“Guess so”, she replied. “So what now?”  
Enjolras took a moment to collect his thoughts. While he had had no confirmation, this was certainly not fully unexpected.  
It seemed, there were a number of layers to Eponine, the woman whom he, due to strange and unfathomable circumstances, owed his life.  
Yet, Enjolras had rarely been disappointed by his own estimate of people. And when it came to this particular friend of Marius, there were many confusing things about her. But he had no reason at all to regard her as an enemy.  
“That depends”, he therefore answered. “While certainly going against the law, your intention of robbing the Cambouts has been remedied by the fact, that you saved Madame de Cambout’s life. I think we can agree on that.” He let some wryness slip into his voice in an attempt to set her more at ease, to remove the tension from her posture. It was not working.  
“Aha”, she replied, and he pressed on.  
“The question is – will they reveal us if we appear in La Force? I have no intention of overstaying my welcome in this place, and I would not appreciate it happen to you as well.”  
She squinted her eyes, suspicious.  
“What’s it to you?”  
He wondered, why he had to come back to the same thing. It was, on the whole, not that difficult to grasp after all.  
“Eponine.” He tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice. This was needless. Things were clear, and she should see it. “You have done me and the cause that I am dedicated to, a great service. I have said it before, and I am prepared to reiterate it. I mean you no ill. Let me be blunt.”  
She crossed her arms before her in a defensive gesture and glared at him. Despite her haggard appearance, he had to admit that there was a certain force in her gaze.  
She was a being freeborn. She just did not know it yet.  
Combeferre and Feuilly would love this, he thought not a little wryly.  
“What I want is to find out what is going on, to be able to make out a clear path on where we are going and what we are facing. Preferably with your help, because you have seen who killed Monsieur Cambout and I have not. What I do not want is to discover, that I have led you to a place I cannot bring you out of again.”  
She hesitated. Searched his face for something he could not fathom.  
And finally nodded.  
“They ain’t stupid”, she then said. “They see me coming with someone like you, they’ll keep quiet. You don’t survive doing stupid things and ruining people’s plans.”  
Enjolras sensed, that this was all that he would get.  
It might be enough, though.  
“Very well”, he responded. “Let us go then, Mademoiselle. We have work to do.”

As the doors of La Force closed behind them, Enjolras, for all his confidence could not shake the nagging feeling of being trapped in the lion’s den. Policemen and national guards crowded the corridor, and even though they were being left alone for the moment – there were relatives of the criminals entrapped here to be watched and a law student, gaining access with a recommendation from Pierre La Manche, professeur des droits criminels de la Sorbonne, was probably not high on their list of suspects to organize an outbreak.  
It was laughably predictable and outraging in its injustice as well.  
Upon passing inside, he had seen a grisette, in tears as she pleaded with the officer on duty to let her see her betrothed, who had been imprisoned for a minor offense not even yet proven, had the harsh words of the watchman still rang in his ears.  
His letter and his determined words had remedied that as well; but even though he had been successful in deed, the necessity to even intervene into the scenery had stirred his anger again.  
Another of the manifold signs of why they were taking the only road still open to all good men in this world – to overthrow the oppression that was lying on city and country like a blanket of death.  
The grisette had thanked him, tears still on her cheeks, and Eponine had given him a curious look that he neither could place nor sought to, and they had gone their separate ways; Eponine and himself towards those who were charged with a capital offense, the young woman to the cells of those, that were likely to be released sometime soon.  
“You sure know your way around”, Eponine said appraisingly, when they were relatively unwatched, in the middle of the court that separated the wings of the prison and that was crowded with visitors and watchmen alike. He smiled a grim smile, thinking of the last – and only – time he had been forced to resort to his letter out of more than academic interest; when Bahorel, Joly and Bossuet had been caught as the initiators of a particularly loud and vicious brawl, that had taken place on easter Sunday at Place Notre Dame, where they had called god’s mercy upon this city to relieve it of its suffering and pain. The situation had been solved with money then.  
Another of the things, that should not have been; even though it had worked in his favor. He had not liked it, but Courfeyrac had been adamant in using the faults of the regime to their own advantage was a valid course of action.  
“I have reckless friends”, he told the story in few words, which elicited a snort and a slight laugh from her.  
“So do I”, she said in an unexpected attempt at humor, and despite himself he felt a smile find its way to his face.  
The entrance into the building was closed by another gate, watched by another set of guards, where again Enjolras pulled out the letter and requested to be brought to the prisoners taken in Rue d’Olivel the night before.  
The guard gave him a suspicious look, that he was unable to place, but complied, and a few minutes later, they were walking through the corridors of the prison, past cells over cells, until they arrived at on, that was occupied by a number of men lounging on various cots, all of them looking up when they arrived at their gates.  
The guard used his bayonet to rattle at the bars of the cell, as if the prisoners had not been roused already.  
“Visitors”, he said, in a bored manner, and retreated a few steps to leave them to their conversation.  
“You know the rules”, he said, to both Enjolras and Eponine, his face wavering between boredom and sternness. “No touching. Speak nice and loud, so I can hear you.”  
Enjolras nodded briefly in acknowledgement and turned back to assess the people present. He indeed knew the rules.  
Four men had now massed around the gates, throwing questioning glances at Eponine and curious ones at him. Foremost was a middle-aged man in a faded jacket that had once been of not altogether bad cut, but was significantly worse for the wear now. His hair was in disarray, and his face showed the telltale signs of hard living – the deep-ingrained lines of hunger, the sharp, bitter expression around the mouth that spoke of cruelty or dejection.  
At his side, there was a brute of a man, towering over the other three, and their visitors as well, his shoulders wide and imposing. The third was a tall, spindly guy of middle age, spidery fingers wound around the bars that separated them from Enjolras and Eponine, while the fourth was remarkably ordinary, a man that may have been bourgeois or servant, in relatively well-tended clothes. It was only his eyes, that were always on the move, and clever.  
He threw a gaze at Eponine, on whose face a slight frown had appeared, which was curious and put him slightly on the edge.  
“Which of those?” he mouthed, and she gave a minuscule shake of her head.  
“None.”  
The oldest of the group clearly strained to understand the exchange between Eponine and Enjolras, but apparently was unsuccessful, given the expression of dissatisfaction on his face. However, Enjolras had to play out the charade that had let him here, lest arise suspicion. He schooled his expression to one of professional interest and stepped closer to the quartet, watching each of them in turn.  
“What is the charge you are being accused of, citizens?”  
For a moment, they exchanged glances, and it was clear that they were not sure how to place him. That, indeed, was not surprising. Finally, Eponine seemed to settle the problem with a nod of her own and a few quick gestures of her hand, hidden from the watchman in their back. Whatever she did, it seemed to work and the unremarkable one took it upon himself to answer.  
“Burglary and murder”, he said, defensively, crossing his arms over his chest.  
“Of Alexandre de Cambout”, Enjolras added, making it a statement rather than a question, but careful to leave any anger he felt out of his voice, and there was a snort from the older man.  
“That wasn’t us”, he drawled. “That was that wretched dwarf. No reason for us to kill’im off.”  
Enjolras believed him, of course; but he wondered why the man brought this forth. Of course, the charges for murder were much graver than for mere robbery, and if they were caught in the act as they were, the offense of robbery was hard to deny.  
“What happened, exactly?” Enjolras pressed on, and the older man shrugged.  
“Damned if I knew. We may have been around that house, yeah. Sort of.” A quick flash of gaze to Eponine before he continued. “But when we were there, there was that scream in the upper part of the house. Next I know, there’s police all over us, and there’s a brawl, and we find ourselves here with that misshapen bunch of misery. Seems he killed off that noble, damned if I know how or why.”  
“Did he tell you anything?” Enjolras continued his questioning, and again, there was this curious exchange between the man and Eponine, before he answered.  
“Not much, anyway. Seemed awfully smug, if you ask me. Was fairly well dressed, as well. Oh. And had a huge lump on the top of his head. Complaining about some fury hitting him. Was probably why the police caught him at all; he was awfully quick when they bound him in irons, took three men to take him down.” The man smacked his lips. “If I were that fury”, he continued, “I’d watch my back in case he’s seen her. Could turn out nasty.”  
That was a statement that was open enough. Enjolras threw a quick glance to Eponine, but her face was completely stony and revealed nothing.  
“He said something about a good day’s work done”, the spindly one added, shrugging. “And about this being futile.”  
“Unpleasant fellow”, the unremarkable man added from the sidelines. He had slunk back to the wall to lean against it in a carefully studied gesture. “But then – we’re not exactly prince charming, either.” He smiled and showed a few missing teeth.  
“And you have never seen him before?” Enjolras continued, and the man shook his head.  
“Would remember that sort of guy, for sure”, he confirmed and snorted in some sort of disgust. “Too smug for his own good, and certainly for a dwarf, that one was.”  
“Parnasse seemed to know him, though”, the brute supplied, all of a sudden, which earned him a dangerous look from the oldest man, and a shove in the rib from the spindly fellow.  
“Where is ‘Parnasse anyway?”  
It was the first time since they arrived here, that Eponine had spoken, dropping all pretense of whatever role she had thought to play here. She had crossed her arms in a defensive gesture and looked squarely at the oldest of the group.  
For a quick moment, Enjolras wondered, that they had a very similar way of glaring at one another – but he put the thought aside for further reference and later deductions.  
“Damned, if I know”, the man answered again, shrugging. “We woke up this morning, and he and the dwarf were both gone.”  
“You sure?”  
“Yes, I’m sure”, he answered, aping her tone. There was something unpleasant in the way he responded, as if he were quickly losing patience.  
Probably, they had stayed out their welcome, as it were. Enjolras was not sure that there was much more information to be gained from them. Time to break the scenery before anything ugly could happen.  
“I understand Messieurs”, he cut in, “and I am sure, that I will be able to find this… dwarf with the help of the good soldiers inside this fortress. As to your offense…”  
He took a deep breath. The line between pretense and reality was thin. The men before him seemed to him at least a dangerous sort – certainly not the morally pure creatures that so often fell between the wide and unmerciful cracks of what passed for the legal system of France.  
They were charged with false offense, however. And he had a nagging feeling that they may yet hang for a crime they had not committed, despite all of those that they had indeed done.  
Unjust… yet again.  
And then there was the matter of Eponine…  
“… I promise nothing”, he ventured finally. “But I believe you. And I will see what is to be done.”  
He could feel their glares on him, distrustful, hostile, careful, like caged predators yearning for another kind of freedom.  
But before any of them could answer, he could hear steps approaching, another soldier, another visitor.  
And Enjolras found himself face to face with Inspector Javert, police agent and investigator of the murders and crimes committed last night.  
A man of middle height with graying hair, dressed well, but modestly, with a posture that belied both confidence and calm, hands linked behind his back as he surveyed the scene.  
“Well”, he began, not commanding, not strong, but rather musing and thoughtful. “What a surprise. I would not have expected these petty thieves and murderers to attract that amount of interest.”  
“Not yet convicted”, Enjolras reminded him. Not, that he was not convinced that they were indeed criminals, and there was no telling what offenses they had committed. But there was an order to things.  
The man opposite him smiled a quick mirthless smile.  
“Of course”, he responded. “Acutely put, Monsieur…”  
Enjolras straightened himself to full height. He was slightly taller than the man before him, but for some reason, he did not feel like it.  
Not something that happened to him often, he had to admit.  
“Enjolras”, he said. “Sebastien Enjolras.”  
“Ah…”, the man said, “A pleasure. A student of the law… I presume… with academic interest in the case?”  
Enjolras nodded, wondering for a moment how the man would have guessed. Maybe he had been told at the entrance.  
“We strive for the same thing then, Monsieur”, he continued, and that eerie smile found its way back onto his features. “The beauty of justice and law given its due. Do we not?”  
He knew, Enjolras understood, then. Whoever he was, however he knew, Enjolras was pretty sure that the man before him had a good idea on who he actually was, and what he was striving for. In these narrow corridors of La Force, law and justice had met, if only in a moment in time.  
Carefully he made sure that none of this showed on his face.  
“Indeed”, he said, knowing what his opponent meant was not justice, and that laws could be changed.  
The man nodded, as in confirmation.  
“I am Inspector Javert”, he said and extended a hand in greeting, and Enjolras responded.  
Javert’s fingers were icy, but his grip was firm.  
“I expect to hear from you soon then”, Javert supplied. “A young man of promise, such as yourself…”  
Enjolras smiled a grim smile. If he were to play this charade, he intended to play it fully.  
“You will”, he therefore said. “You will.”


	14. Talking of winter, dreaming of spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a secret comes back to haunt Valjean and we learn the story of Combeferre and Hélène de Cambout

**Chapter 13: Talking of winter, dreaming of spring**   
_“An old friend of mine once quoted me an ancient Egyptian blessing: ‘God be between you and harm in all the empty places where you must walk.’”_

Night had held no sleep in store for Jean Valjean.  
After sending his daughter to bed he had remained in his seat and pondered the absurdity of the situation, together with the events of the day. As time passed, the candles lighting his room burned lower and lower, and finally, at the brink of dawn, went out one by one.  
Thoughtfully, he twisted and turned what he knew, the magnitude of impact of the events of the day as well as the actions to be taken, and he felt at loss as to how to proceed.  
Of course he had feared that one day someone would come and steal his daughter’s heart from him, be it in the manner of petty thieves or sophisticated con-artists, come what may, the result would be the same. And yet, such was the way of things, such was the way of the world. Cosette had been the single bright spark of his existence for so long, that he could not imagine what he would do, were he to lose it. What shreds of his soul would remain once she was gone? And yet, as much as I loved her, should he not be happy for her?  
There was a huge difference between love and possession, as the priests said. Selfishness was a path to self-destruction, led to pain and suffering. And selfish he must not be, not when it came to Cosette who had shown him a way out of a darkness unending that loomed at the corner of his mind when he was not looking.  
The deed was done, the genie unleashed from its bottle. If anything, the expression in his daughter’s eyes had shown him that he had lost the fight already.  
Be it through his own harshness or through the hands of Marius Pontmercy; he would lose Cosette.  
The only thing left to do was to ease the transition.  
Which led, inevitably, to the issue of the man Pontmercy had brought to him. Valjean believed him, that the young man had had the best intentions in mind as he rushed to Rue Plumet today, but the face at his gate had awakened demons long banished. To put it simply, Valjean was afraid.  
Afraid for the safety of his daughter – and also a trifle concerned for the safety of himself – but even more than this, he worried for Pontmercy.  
The man that held his daughter’s happiness in his hands had made a powerful enemy indeed.  
And he had no idea, what he was facing.  
Valjean got up and shook his head, taking to pacing.  
But how could he deal with this? What could he do? To reveal who – or better yet – what this man was would be to reveal who he himself was; to speak of that which must not be named; and this was out of the question. Nothing would bring him to open that well of darkness in his heart, and yet something had to be done to protect the man.  
Should he try and seek out the attacker by himself? Protect Pontmercy, so that no harm may come to him from this source? This was difficult to be brought about, if not impossible, and Valjean dismissed the idea as he had the one of telling either Cosette or Pontmercy the truth.  
So what, then?  
Silently he pondered this, standing at the window and looking into the coming dawn of a new day, painting the sky a pale green with the colors of a young morning.  
The world was fresh and new in these hours.  
And it was time for all that was old, man and demons alike, to step aside in the face of a beginning.  
A decision made, Jean Valjean sat down at his writing table, taking ink, pen and paper, beginning to write.  
This is the account of a man that shall not be named…  
An hour later the deed was done, and he felt exhausted. Carefully he reread the letter, worried about each careful phrase, looking into the details of it to see that nothing could be traced back to him, to this house, or this place.  
It was vague enough, and the truth was planted in lies and deceptions, but he hoped that the young man would understand the message, if not the messenger and would act upon it.  
Even if Valjean himself had serious doubts about what would be the appropriate course of action in such a case.  
He felt surprised at the fact that it was a relief to have finally banned the darkness in words on ink and paper. The secrets were lying heavily on his heart, and of course he knew that no one – no one – should ever learn the truth about him, but releasing this small fraction of a demon into the world had made his heart lighter in a strange, inexplicable sort of way.  
And thus it was that when he heard Touissant shuffling around in the wee hours of morning, he was actually in a calm mood, as he gave her the letter he had so agonized over.  
“See to it”, he said, “that this is brought to Marius Pontmercy.” She looked at him questioningly, but he was not inclined to explain. “I do not know where he lives, but I do know that he is connected to some of the students, who are currently stirring unrest in this city. I want you to find him and give this to him. But do not do it yourself, find someone, a gamin, a hired hand, and do not let yourself be seen or connected to this house. What is in this letter must remain a secret to anyone but its recipient, and the writer of this letter must remain a secret to the reader.”  
The worry in his eyes seemed to touch the woman, and she took the piece of paper with care, folded it twice more and placed it under her belt.  
“I will, Monsieur”, she said, ever calm, ever reliable, and another, slight touch of relief crossed over his heart.  
It was dawn, of sorts, after all.

The apartment was quiet after Enjolras and Eponine had left. Lamarin, who had had the last watch in the early stages of morning, sat in an armchair, looking slightly tired. At least, instead of just hovering somewhere dejectedly, he now had a book on his knees – thank heavens for Enjolras’ tendency to shower people in activity (The paragraphs on the laws of inheritance. Look them up for me, will you? Find out, what’s in store in case of the de Cambouts, and what is to be done.). It had been the right thing to do, because if nothing else, it had chased the panicked look out of the young man’s eyes. Instead, he was now focused on the task at hand, sifting through Enjolras’ well-used copy of the Code Civil, and taking notes, thoroughly distracted from his current situation. From what Combeferre could tell he knew what he was doing. What little Lamarin had agreed to eat for breakfast – Enjolras’ cupboards were not exactly packed, when it came to this, but some bread and cheese was to be found – stood forgotten before him.  
It left Combeferre to watch over Hélène, who slept fitfully in Enjolras’ bed, tossing her head from one side to the other. Her composure yesterday had been admirable, but it seemed that her demons had crept upon her unawares and thoroughly caught up with her.  
Silently, he debated whether he should wake her. Rest was the best remedy in case of shock and pain, he knew, but on the other hand he seriously doubted that her sleep was restful at all at the moment.  
And he hated to see her in pain.

_It had been one of the few times that any woman not working at the Musain had been allowed in the back room that was their usual haunt, but she seemed thoroughly unaware of the fact._   
_The young man, blonde, close-cropped hair and warm brown eyes, exhibited an air of cordiality that was hard to resist. His clothes spoke indeed of the nobility he was, but his demeanor had nothing of the aloof tendencies of the upper class. He was, even at first glance, easy to like._   
_The woman was a trifle quieter than he, but she had quick, clever dark eyes that followed the conversation with an alertness that implied intelligence, and she did not mind speaking when she had something to say. She was not intimidated in the assembly of the students that formed the inner circle of Les Amis de l’ABC. He would learn later, that she could be stubborn, when convinced._   
_Alexandre de Cambout and Hélène Dufranc had been invited courtesy of Courfeyrac. The Cambout and Courfeyrac families had long-standing ties, and the friendship of the fathers had led to a tentative understanding between the sons, which was promising to become deeper. If anything, they were probably drifting towards a similar relationship with their respective parents, if de Cambout’s words were anything to go by._   
_“Up to now”, Enjolras said skeptically, “I was not under the impression that Le Globe was particularly unsympathetic to the government.”_   
_“Ah, but that was when my father was still presiding. Giving his progressing age and his wish to return to the country, he has bestowed that position to me, now.”_   
_Enjolras’ brows rose in surprise._   
_“You certainly lose no time, Monsieur”, he said, and de Cambout smiled._   
_“I was not aware”, he retorted, a trifle ironically, “that circumstances were such that one had time to lose.”_   
_Enjolras smiled at that, won over immediately._

  
A whimper from Hélène decided the matter. Combeferre put a hand on the mattress and shook it slightly, calling out to her in soft tones.  
“Wake up, Hélène.”  
She opened her eyes nearly immediately, taking in her surroundings in a glance. Her breath was going a trifle too quickly, and in the first instants after waking there was a remnant of panic in her eyes. But she mastered it quickly, drawing a curtain of stone over her face and inhaled and exhaled pointedly as if to fight down whatever was raging inside her.  
“You were dreaming”, Combeferre offered by way of apology, and she nodded almost absentmindedly. She was pale and the deep lines under her eyes suggested that she had had no rest at all. The doctor in him wanted to send her back to sleep at once, to allow her to recover some more, but the friend did not have the heart to even suggest it.  
It would be too hard a thing to send her back down into this abyss on her own.  
“Thank you”, she answered after a moment’s thought, still eerily calm and composed. Her eyes were darting about the room, but he was not sure that she was even registering what she saw. The expression in her face was devoid of any indication.  
“How are you feeling?” he finally dared even though the question was ridiculous at best, and her face softened for a moment but the echo of a smile did not reach her eyes.  
“Overwhelmed”, she confessed, finally. “As if I am still trapped in a nightmare.”  
“Madame…”, the words found their way out of their own accord. “I am so deeply, incredibly sorry for what happened. There are no words adequate to convey my regret. If there’s anything I can do…”  
“Strange to think that we somehow should have expected this, should we not?” Her lips quivered slightly at that, but her eyes were dry. “And yet, we never truly thought of it…” She watched him sadly, looking pale and defeated in the pillows. “Pourvu que ca dure, n’est pas*?”  
“Yes”, Combeferre answered, softly. How very much like her to find a quote as astute as this one at these times. “Now everything is changed.”  
Somehow it helped to voice it. Somehow it helped, that the words stood between them, aloud now instead of silent. Someone had to admit that they had woken to a new dawn today.  
“I don’t regret it.” Her gaze had wandered to the ceiling and now, there were indeed tears there, glistening but unshed. “I mourn everything. But I regret nothing.”  
What else should she have said?

_“What do you think?”_   
_Alexandre hardly seemed to be able to wait until his fiancée had finished reading the draft of the leaflet that should be their first item of cooperation, excited almost as if it had been his words and not those of Enjolras that she was evaluating. The author of the pamphlet seemed much less nervous, the expression on his face nearly bored as he waited for Hélène to complete her assessment._   
_“It’s harsh”, she unwittingly repeated, if not in the same words, the opinion that Combeferre had uttered to his friend in private some time before their guests had arrived._   
_“It’s true”, Enjolras retorted. “And it needs to be said.”_   
_Almost the same words that Combeferre had heard from him earlier, and she nodded thoughtfully, turning to her soon-to-be husband, pondering._   
_“What’s your opinion on it?”_   
_Alexandre took back the draft and slowly played with the paper, not really reading it._   
_“I tend to agree with Enjolras”, he answered. “It’s harsh, but it’s rousing. And the wording is good. A few brushes here and there – but it hardly needs to be edited at all.”_   
_“What about a picture?” Hélène proposed and reached over the table to pluck the pen that was lying before Enjolras without even a second thought. She began, at the corner of the draft, to paint a layout. “Softening the message, so to say. Catching the attention. Here would be the header”, she began, writing “Citizens of France” in quick, careless letters at the top of the drawn page. “The image here…” she placed it in the right part, directly below the bold header and drew some lines left and below to indicate the text. “Like this. This should work well with the new Bauer press, don’t you think?”_   
_Alexandre shook his head._   
_“Too expensive”, he said. “Too time-consuming. We have no time to get a xylograph done. They need it by tomorrow. And I am not sure I want to draw Pierre into…”, but Hélène had no time to wait his concerns out. “Unless of course we reuse the xylograph from the header two weeks ago. The one about the redecoration of the southern part of the Jardin du Luxembourg…”_   
_“… as a signifier of hope for a better place…” Combeferre knew what article they were talking about and fully understood the lines along which they were thinking. Hélène nodded, exchanging a glance with him that was at the same time astonished and grateful. Excitement had colored her cheeks red and her eyes were dancing._   
_“Just what I meant.”_   
_They had found that pamphlet still months afterwards, being plastered to walls, being carried around by citizens, being flaunted whenever they dreamt of a new world…._

She had closed her eyes for a moment and when she reopened them, the tears had vanished and her eyes were cool and dry.  
“Enjolras promised to step by Joly’s before going about his errands. Joly has… a friend that may be able to provide you with fresh clothes.”  
“Ah.” Her interest was small apparently, but after a moment she nodded, seemingly remembering that what she had given him was no adequate response to that kind of offer. “Thank you”, she added, her voice soft and dead.  
Slowly, she roused herself to get up into a sitting position and rubbed her face with both hands to clear her thought.  
And froze in mid-motion. Her face had gone deathly pale in a matter of seconds.  
“Oh no…”, she whispered, shot up fully and hurried out of the bed, pressing one hand to her mouth, the other on the stomach, and hurried to the small washing room, before she emptied what little she had eaten the night before into a washing bowl, stomach cramping until it had nothing else to give.  
Combeferre, more than worried, shot up and hurried after her, arriving at the washing room only a few steps behind. She was trembling as she took deep, labored breaths to calm herself.  
He felt himself go cold.  
Sickness… sudden vomiting… pallor.  
No man inclined to the arts of medicine in this city could miss these signs these days. The sickness was mysterious, quick at times like a wildcat on the jump, and sometimes slow like a danger in the shadows. The vicious enemy that was holding the city in a death grip had spread violently, mostly among the poor, but had not spared the privileged ones either.  
Not all those infected died. But most of them…  
“Are you alright?”  
He had all but forgotten about Lamarin, who had put aside his book and come up to them to evaluate the situation.  
“I’m fine”, Hélène lied.  
“Madame…” Combeferre began, cautiously, still debating with himself whether he should approach or not. “Maybe I should…”  
“It will pass”, she cut him off, not wanting to explain herself. She felt crowded in the small, windowless washing room, with him blocking the only entrance and that put her off foot. “No need to worry.”  
He hesitated before nodding curtly and opening the escape route for her by taking a step aside.  
“You should sit down at least”, he suggested and she nodded, taking uncertain steps towards the couch.  
He followed, Lamarin in tow.

_When Marius and Combeferre stepped into the Corinthe, a few minutes before the appointed time, they were surprised to find that she had come alone._   
_Clad in a modest dress of fine cut, dark hair partly hidden by a hat, she raised her gaze to them as they entered, and greeted them with a smile._   
_“Alexandre sends his apologies”, she said, as Madame Houcheloup set two additional glasses next to the carafe of Côte du Rhône red and the two revolutionaries took their seat across the table from her. “He was delayed – an article was late, but don’t worry. I can take care of it.”_   
_Later, they had understood that Alexandre’s family had finally caught up with his sidetracked activities, and he had been called home for investigation. They had never learned how he managed to resolve the situation, head, pride and occupation more or less intact._   
_“We would need two hundred of those”, Marius said, slipping a draft over to her that Hélène took to read. She was quick in these things, normally, but now she took her time, and he saw her eyes squinting, then softening. A smile ghosted over her features._   
_“That’s not your hand, Monsieur Pontmercy, is it? Nor Monsieur Enjolras’.” She shook her head. “It’s beautiful.”_   
_He could not help a strange, selfish surge of pride as Marius confirmed. “It’s Combeferre who wrote it. Quite the philosopher, he is.”_   
_She raised her gaze to muster him, seriously, for just a moment, dark eyes unreadable before she smiled._   
_“Not quite snappy enough for a pamphlet, I’m thinking”, she said as she put the paper down. “No offense, of course. I can print it if you want, but…” She tapped her lips with her fingers carefully. “I am thinking… would you consider having it for the paper itself instead?” Her fingers played along one another, a nervous gesture she took to when she was excited. “It’s vague and careful enough, and yet all things are there, clear to see for those who will…” Her smile turned slightly mischievous. “We can always claim being a little dense when it comes to subtleties, if there’s any trouble.”_   
_Combeferre blinked, surprised at this offer. “Le Globe itself? Are you sure?”_   
_She nodded, seriously._   
_“Very much so”, she confirmed. “This one and any others along those lines that you can give me. Alexandre and I have been looking for a way to seep the message into the main paper for months now. This”, she lifted the draft, “is perfect for this.”_   
_He would not have been able to say no after that, even if he had wanted to._

  
Silence had settled for a moment. Hélène seemed to be recovering, a trifle at least, her eyes closed as some color returning to her cheeks. And then all of a sudden, she spoke again.  
“There is no need to worry.” She forced her eyes open and the words past her lips. Her voice was dead and matter-of-fact. “I am with child. That is all.”  
He took a moment to process that. Of course. It should have been obvious. They had been married a good six months now, it was to be expected. Internally he sighed. Trust him to jump to conclusions, after a day like the last one they had. It seemed that he was turning more into Joly by the minute.  
Would, that he also had his fellow students’ natural ability of seeing the bright sight of an intrinsically hopeless situation. That would have been a very useful feat at the moment.  
For, given the overall circumstances, he had no idea what to say.  
“I…” he began, then restarted differently, “This is…” to stop again and settle finally for “How far along?” Probably not an appropriate response,  
“I have known it for a month”, Hélène explained and fell silent.  
She had yet to shed a tear for her husband, and she did not cry now. But everything was hidden behind a dark, forbidding façade of stone.

_It was the beginning of winter, when they were all invited to celebrate Mademoiselle Dufranc becoming Madame de Cambout._   
_By this time they had fallen into a comfortable rhythm of companionship. Marius wrote the pamphlets, his natural gift for exuberance and finely crafted words had him very well suited for the task. Feuilly and Enjolras would support at times, but especially the leader of the ABCs quickly lost patience with the perfectionism that the newspaper owners exhibited. It was in his nature to see things done, and he left the fine detailing to those better suited to it. His gift was the oration, where his natural charisma would color the words and play the emotions of the audience._   
_In time, he left the written word to those with more patience for revision._   
_Combeferre on the other hand had continued to write articles for Le Globe, commentaries and appeals, and they had been well received. He had watched the newspaper, under the guidance of its new owners, move from a voice of the establishment to a critical institution in the city, with careful, well-tempered articles that showed the signs of the time for those that were able to read them._   
_He would have had to lie in saying that he did not enjoy it. Discussing his thoughts and writings with them – even though, in truth, it was mostly Hélène who took care of his articles, Alexandre being occupied with other things – was as interesting as it was creative.He had doubted the wisdom of the lot of them making an appearance at the wedding, but Alexandre had laughed his concerns away – “Your voice is all over my paper, why shouldn’t your faces be at my wedding?” – in that infuriatingly careless manner of his, and so they were sitting in the back rows of the church, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible._   
_And as Hélène exchanged her vows with her future husband, he had, with a strange flash of intuition, wondered why it was so excruciatingly hard to be happy for her._

“Is… is there anything we can do for you?”  
Combeferre had almost forgotten that Lamarin was there, but the young man spoke up suddenly, sitting in the armchair he had occupied before and looked at Hélène intently.  
There was something in his earnestness that made her smile sadly.  
“You already are, unless I am mistaken”, she said, after having had a look at the book and notes around him. “I find myself in a fix at the moment. To be honest, I… am a bit at loss at all the protocols that I am facing now. And the…”, her voice hitched, only so slightly, “… the questions of succession… and the like.”  
“But surely”, Lamarin answered, “your family will help you in this….”  
Hélène closed her eyes for a moment.  
“Yes. They will.” She clenched her teeth and her fingers formed firsts, as she was struggling with the demons of her own. “They will see to it that I do not lose all in the process. But they do not understand.” She opened her eyes to look at the two students, and now indeed there were tears there, threatening to overspill and drop on her cheeks, red in excitement and pain. “They do not understand who… what we were.” She held Lamarin’s gaze, blinking away tears almost angrily. “You want to help? Then protect his legacy, our legacy.” Her hand went to her stomach, an almost unconscious gesture. “Help me keep the paper. Help me continue what he died for.” She took a deep breath then, and Combeferre thought that there was almost a quality reminding him of Enjolras in her burning gaze, but she was not asking for justice. Pain had driven her beyond that, for now.  
“Make them pay”, she whispered. “Weave your finest words, Monsieur Combeferre, and call light into the dark places no one dares to go. Tell your friends to send me rousing calls that will move the stoutest of hearts.” She trembled, overtaxed, overwrought, tired, angry, sad, and determined. “We will tell our story, what they did, and what they dared. And with any luck, we will set the city aflame, in time.”  
Lamarin, at the receiving end of such fierceness, blinked a few times before he nodded.  
“All right”, he said. “All right.” His eyes darted back to his books and notes. “I can do that.”  
Her gaze wandered to Combeferre but she did not need to ask him.  
She knew.

  
_They had spoken of it only once, an enchanted night in March. There had been a police rally at the headquarters of Le Globe that had been made seemingly for no other reason than to enhance pressure on an uncomfortable vox populi, and Alexandre, in his usual exuberance, had decided that this called for a celebration. Both things actually – the fact that the rally had happened at all, and the fact that they had had to leave without any result._   
_Hence, they found themselves at the Musain in the evening, Hélène and Alexandre still excited and drunk on the events of the day, and wine was flowing freely as spirits and dreams sored._   
_He was sitting on Hélène’s right, laughing with all of them as Alexandre recalled for what probably was the twentieth time how they had spoken to the police officer – a simple man very clearly in over his head – and confused him with their quick responses and seeming incapability to understand what the problem was._   
_“And the best thing”, Hélène laughed, cheeks reddened by the wine, eyes dancing as she turned to Combeferre, “was that he tried to take your Plato quote about the child fearing darkness and its context as a trademark on why we were so out of line, but he got it all backwards and I didn’t even have to say something to make him shut up.”_   
_She shook with barely repressed laughter, and she was so alive, and the wine was singing in his veins; and so he took her fingers and bestowed almost a kiss on her hand, not even touching her; the most proper of gestures, and smiled._   
_“I am glad that my words were able to help confuse someone meaning you harm and deflect his attention. Feel free to call for that line of defense any time you need it, Madame.”_   
_He had meant it in jest, but she was staring at him with wide eyes and excused herself shortly after to step outside the door._   
_He went to look for her when she didn’t return and found her standing in the crisp march air, leaning to the café wall and looking up at the stars. She gave no indication that she had noticed him, so he stepped up to her._   
_“Madame”, he asked. “Is something amiss?”_   
_She turned towards him, watching him for a moment with an unfathomable expression in her dark eyes._   
_“There are days, Monsieur”, she said, and her voice sounded introspective and sad, “when I regret that we met only so late.”_   
_This caught him completely unawares, but before he could think of something to say she placed a soft hand on his shoulder and smiled._   
_“I have to go back in. Alexandre will be waiting.”_   
_It had been the first and last time she had ever touched him._


	15. Of making friends and influencing people

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Éponine is confused by Enjolras, and a boy named Lamarin becomes a man

**Chapter 14: Of making friends and influencing people**   
_“There comes a time when you look into the mirror and realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. Then you accept it, or you kill yourself. Or you stop looking into mirrors.”_

“So, Mademoiselle, what do you make of this?”  
He handed her one of the tartelettes he had purchased from a stand on the street and Éponine mumbled a thanks, both bewildered and suspicious at the gesture and situation overall. If she was to be honest with herself, she did not even know why she was still here, but it did not even feel as if she had been given a choice in the matter. She certainly had not been consulted. He had just assumed that they would be making their way back to Saint Michel together and had set off from the prison as if there was no question at all.  
A bourgeois after all; thinking that the whole world was at his disposal.  
There was a certain uplifting quality to the fact that Enjolras had exhibited small, if hardly remarkable relief at leaving the walls of the prison behind him. He had taken a deep breath as the gates had closed behind them, and his shoulders had relaxed, only in a minuscule manner, but still noticed by his companion. Éponine was used to taking her triumphs bit by bit.  
But he had proposed breakfast, and that was not an offer to be discarded lightly.  
The apple tartelette was still even a little warm.  
Nevertheless, as she took her first bite, leaning next to Enjolras to the wall of one of the houses framing the square they had just stepped upon, she took a moment’s time to reflect what had happened. Her shoulder was still throbbing in pain, but she had been spared the fever for now; whatever Combeferre had done seemed to have worked, at least. It was one less thing to worry about.  
Otherwise, the events were quickly spinning out of control. She had no idea what to do about her father in jail and did not even want to think about what he and the Patron-Minette would think about her showing up there with Enjolras. But all the same, the deed had been done and she had been left to clear up the mess.  
However, she would do it in the end.  
The exasperating man next to her did not make things easier. Enjolras had a natural ability – and inclination – to command, and he took situations in his hand the way a craftsman took his tools, with experience, skill and an implicitness that was a whirlwind to behold and about as easy to resist.  
Éponine was used to being made a tool of.  
Her father had long since made it clear that her participation in his shadier deeds and action was mandatory. If she would not share the fate of her younger brother (not that after what she had seen, it was necessarily the worst thing of all) she had simply complied because she had nothing better to do, and it was the only thing that she seemed capable of.  
Montparnasse had the experience of long years of companionship on his side. They had been closer in earlier times, until he had entangled himself so deeply into the more sinister corners of the slum streets that were home to both of them. Still, the long standing history between them was not to be dispelled so easily.  
Marius had a more subtle way of using her. His weapons were smiles and kind words, bestowed upon her in an off-handed manner that was both attributed to his gentle nature and a lack of care for her personally.  
Enjolras’ easy presumptions were a completely different matter, however. Especially when he asked thoroughly unexpected questions.  
Like that after her opinion.  
“Next time you do something like this,” she advised, dodging his question out of principle, “you should do something about that head of yours.”  
She nodded towards his blonde curls and was met with a raised brow.  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“You stick out,” Eponine informed him. “Like a sore thumb, that is. You have at least four guards in La Force now who are wondering if you’re the guy who keeps giving those speeches about the city. And they are only the ones I noticed. I’m not even talking about the inspector. Sometime someone might consider keeping you inside for a change.”  
He pondered that for a moment, the tartelette forgotten in his hand.  
“I see,” he nodded, thoughtful. “I had not considered that.”  
Éponine was momentarily speechless. Of all the reactions that she would have expected to her taunting, easy admittance had not even been on the list.  
“Even though,” he continued as an afterthought, “deception is not something that I pride in.”  
That she believed. It seemed out of the question that the man, who would bravely face crowds, policemen or Inspectors head-on, would resort to the shadows. A boy of summer, indeed.  
He took a small bite of his tartelette and chewed carefully, watching the busy dealings of the square. She knew what the steely blue eyes were looking for.  
He was not stupid. But he was, as Éponine realized with some measure of astonishment, fully unafraid. His wandering gaze was more of a challenge than anything else.  
Éponine, who was currently not in a hurry, left him to his musings and focused on breakfast.  
“What do you see?” Enjolras asked suddenly after a moment of silence, his eyes still scanning the crowd. He made no inclination that he was even aware of her presence, his gaze fixed on the scenery before him with alarming intensity, as this seemed to be his way.  
There was something magnetic in his stillness. He was a boy, with summer in his hair, and Éponine was not sure at all what he had been aiming at.  
Nevertheless, he had bought her food. She could indulge him a little.  
For a moment, they watched the people pass. It was a peculiar crowd that had assembled there between Saint Germain and Saint Michel. The poor mixed with the bourgeois and the young, hopeful folk that were the students of La Sorbonne passed next to one another, swirled in patterns and shapes.  
And never mingled.  
She wished that she had had that revelation before she had fallen for Marius. The barrier between the well-off and the desolate only opened in one direction, and she had long passed that frontier, never to return. Irrevocably, she was part of the beggars of the street, however much she might dream otherwise. The likes of Marius, for all she might try, were as unreachable to her as the sky.  
“Oil and water”, she finally commented. “Doesn’t mix.”  
Enjolras frowned slightly, all the while without removing his gaze from the crowd. But he did not answer right away, and Éponine decided to return the question to him. Perhaps this would help her understand finally what he was up to.  
“And you?”  
He turned to her, taking his eyes off the crowd as if he had decided his answer on that question long before she had even uttered it.  
“The future,” he responded with severity, and now it was to Éponine, who responded with a frown. He stepped a bit closer to her and pointed towards some of the sceneries before her; snippets in the great picture, like a window opening into a formerly forbidding façade. He indicated a young man in the clothes of a worker, sitting on the steps of a house entrance reading a pamphlet, his face screwed in concentration at what was probably an unfamiliar activity. “There,” he said, and then shifted his gaze to a grisette who was walking on the arm of a student, laughing at something he said, the light in her eyes reflected in his.  
Éponine, seeing herself and Marius, felt an almost bodily substantial pain.  
“There,” Enjolras pointed out, turning to an older man in simple clothes and who propped himself on a cane. In spite of this, his gestures were all fierceness and fury as he yelled at a young bourgeois who had apparently carelessly shoved against him in passing. “Or there.”  
He lowered his arm and surveyed the scenery for a moment.  
“A first glance of liberty,” he said, and for a moment, Éponine thought that she had heard something elusive in his voice that reminded her of the way he spoke in front of a crowd. Carefully, she looked at him without turning her head, and saw something quickly ghosting over his features that might have been satisfaction. Or hope. “Things are changing, Mademoiselle,” he continued. “Those that have lived in fear will start to see the possibilities.” He blinked, a little more slowly than usual. “Soon…”  
He turned his head to look at her, blue eyes clear as the summer sky above them, and she was for a moment at loss for what to say. Marius, when speaking about their goals, hopes and dreams, had a warm quality about him, like a sunbeam breaking through the clouds. Enjolras however, burned with a fire that came from within. While Marius hoped and dreamed, he believed.  
It was a frightening thing to behold, rare, precious and scary.  
A thing of which she had not even been aware that it existed.  
“You will never stop, will you Monsieur? Whatever they do, however they try to frighten you.”  
The revelation was so sudden that she spoke it out aloud, and he shook his head.  
“No. Not until we all are free.”  
It could have sounded fierce or angry, but there was only absolute security in his words, as if he had stated that the sun would come up in the morning. She shook her head in astonishment.  
“Why?”  
She had asked the same question to Marius long ago, and he had given her so many words, all of them beautiful. Of égalite, liberté and fraternité; the ideals of a generation long ago and the dream of a time before the revolution had started to kill its own children, only to bring them back to the beginning of the story. He had spoken of a king and nobles (with bourgeois now put into the bargain) and an army of those that fought for the crumbs of the table. He had talked of equality and opportunities, and of his own desire to be his own man, not the product of generations of Pontmercies before him; of the value of a person, instead of the value of a name.  
Beautiful words. Beautiful and alluring.  
But Enjolras, for all his eloquence, chose a much simpler approach.  
“Because we are all human,” he answered. “And this is the way it is meant to be.”  
There was an honesty to his words that was strangely revealing. He was capable of candor, of beautiful, courageous and angry words. But this, she realized, was the heart of it.  
And Éponine had no answer for this.  
Silently, they watched the hustle, as she almost unconsciously tried to see what he saw and failed.  
“You have not answered my question,” he continued after a while, having finished his breakfast. He took a handkerchief out of his pockets to clean his fingers and absentmindedly handed it over to Éponine, when he saw her wiping her fingers on the folds of her skirt. “Here.”  
Again he had surprised her, and she complied mechanically, old childhood reflexes remembering what her mind did not while she pondered an answer.  
“It’s trouble,” she finally summarized. “And strange at that.”  
Enjolras took back the handkerchief she offered and pondered it for a moment.  
“I thought so, too.” He frowned softly. “There may of course be the possibility of…” there again was the wry note around his mouth, not quite a smile, not quite annoyance, “that head of mine raising suspicion, which might be why no one was inclined to tell me where the dwarf and the other prisoner have gone, but…”  
“No,” Eponine contradicted, without even letting him finish. There was no point. He was on the wrong track. “The watchman didn’t have a clue what you were talking about.”  
Now it was a smile, at least the ghost of it.  
“Ah yes. That remarkable perception of yours.” He crossed his arms before his chest, turning towards her, but time and again his eyes darted back to the crowds. He had not forgotten the morning yesterday, this much was clear enough to him. “This leaves us with two possibilities, I would say. One – they have escaped on their own. Two – they have had help.”  
“That’s provided they took off together,” Éponine remarked. “I don’t know about the dwarf, but ‘Parnasse doesn’t exactly warm to people quickly.”  
“So any combination of the two would be valid as well,” Enjolras concluded, unfazed. “But would this…” he searched a word for a moment, “associate of yours leave his accomplices behind?”  
Éponine shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”  
That earned her a raised brow.  
“Not much honor amongst the wolves, is there?”  
Éponine snorted.  
“It’s always a good idea to look out for yourself,” she informed him. “There’s no telling if someone else will do it, if you do not. But you’re not thinking far enough,” she continued. “You’ve said it yourself. Escape is easier, if you have outside help. Therefore – if you see an opportunity, even if that opens to you alone, you run.”  
“Like you did yesterday,” Enjolras concluded wryly.  
She crossed her arms before her chest and chose not to answer. Instead, she found herself under scrutiny of the weapon that was his clear blue gaze, but her defences held firm. She was Éponine Thénardier. There was not much that she was afraid of.  
Finally, he turned away again to watch his surroundings.  
“So your associates don’t know, the watchmen don’t know, and most certainly we don’t know.” Enjolras shook his head. “Two men vanishing like fog in the morning sun.”  
She looked at him and could not fully mask her surprise and exasperation.  
“You really think this is surprising, Monsieur?” She shook her head. “It happens all the time.”  
“I am well aware of that,” Enjolras gave back, but not without bite. “I do not have to like it, though. And I confess I have not seen it so often in people that I have personal dealings with.”  
Éponine shrugged and thought of herself; having been Thénardier and vanished, and having turned Jondrette who was invisible and slipped between the cracks of the world.  
Perhaps, she thought, she would need another name for doing what she did right now. Jondrette, she figured, did not fit into the world of bourgeois boys dreaming of revolution.  
The interesting question was – did Éponine?  
She brushed away the nagging thought in the manner one brushes away a fly.  
“If Parnasse’s out, he’ll show up. He always does.”  
“So we would know then.” He did not phrase it as a question, but it was one nonetheless, judging by the gaze he was giving her, and Éponine felt as if she were standing at another threshold without having realizing it approaching.  
She was in a state of transition; in between things. The strange day yesterday had entangled her in the web that surrounded Marius’ friends, and what had begun as a desperate reaction towards a threat on Marius’ life had morphed into something akin to curiosity.  
The dealings of Enjolras and his friends were not her own – Éponine had never even considered stepping into something as big as the plot to overthrow a state – but she had been in the vicinity for more than enough time that was probably deemed wise.  
There was one thing in which Enjolras was right. Her quick reaction on the market the morning before had brought her closer to them by necessity. The probability that she was wanted by the same people was high. Montparnasse had confirmed it, and she had no reason to believe that he was lying. Therefore, she figured it would be in her own interest, of sorts, to find the bottom to all of this.  
This was what decided the matter.  
“I guess,” she answered, not admitting too much, but it was good enough for him, and he nodded.  
“Thank you Mademoiselle,” he said surprisingly. And then, “I appreciate it.”  
Not that his appreciation meant much to her, but it was nice to hear it in spite of everything.  
With a flash of pain she realized she that could not remember Marius ever saying something like this. Not to her, at least.  
“No problem,” she answered, giving her best shot at an unfazed outer appearance. He frowned, for just a moment before he nodded and pushed himself off the wall.  
“So, Mademoiselle,” he offered. “I figure, we should try and find out how the others have fared, don’t you think?” His gaze was full of energy, as if all his stillness had been spent during the last moments of conversation. “Let’s see how Courfeyrac, Marius and Gavroche have passed the night. And I am certain they will be most interested in the story we have to tell.”  
She had had every intention of dropping him off somewhere with his friends and taking off again on her own errands.  
Trust him to ruin that plan of hers as well.  
Marc Lamarin was still trying to find out why he had said what he said.  
As if trouble had not been big enough yet, he had agreed to something that was well beyond what he had ever done, and certainly beyond what he thought himself capable of.  
He had been overwhelmed much in the same way as he had been when Jacques and Joseph had talked to him a few months ago, speaking of what it was that they were doing here in the Capital, and in unison with brothers back home in Provence. It had been frightening. Exhilarating.  
Irresistible.  
Quite like the fierce appeal of the woman that was sitting on the couch, valiantly fighting back tears as she schooled her face into a mostly neutral expression.  
And yet, there was a part of him that had already formed the questions he would have to ask her to find out how to bend the paragraphs and words to his will.  
Only a few months into his studies, Marc Lamarin had already found out that he was a natural when it came to the interpretation of the finer workings of the legal system. Learning at his father’s knee had helped, but intelligence, enthusiasm and diligence had completed the picture. He was not sure whether he could do what she had asked on his own. But he was strangely sure that he could do something.  
However, there was no time to go deeper into this trail of thoughts. Steps on the stairs heralded the arrival of some of the other members of the Amis de l’ABC as Jacques had used to call them, interrupting his musings.  
A key was turned in the lock, and the door opened to reveal two young men. Lesgle – or Bossuet, as he had learned yesterday - he knew by sight, having met him in one of the few lectures the man had attended lately. As to the other, the young man with sandy hair and spectacles was Joly, a medical student. In fact, they had been part of the group that had found him the day before when he had rushed around the streets in a bout of panic, and he still gratefully remembered it.  
As they arrived, they were deep in a discussion of their own.  
“… and that is something I’ll probably hear about for months on end,” came the slightly plaintive voice of Joly as he opened the door.  
“Joly, I’ve told you time and again,” Bossuet responded. “Don’t bait her. She loves that sort of thing, and it’s only going to be to your ruin.” He was slightly older, his hair receding already, which gave him a look of dignity that the other two lacked. His voice was amused and almost ridiculously light-hearted and fully in contrast to the mood that had reigned the room before.  
The relief was immediate.  
“I did no such thing,” Joly contradicted, taking a moment to breathe deeply. He seemed slightly out of breath and stopped for a moment, taking deep gasps and murmuring something about the possibility of pneumonia and the dangers of flats higher up the house. “I have just told her…”  
Combeferre and Madame de Cambout shared a gaze that spoke of mild amusement before the former got up to greet his friends.  
“Good morning,” he said, a wry smile on his lips that seemed slightly forced, but not overly so. “I trust your night has been peaceful.”  
Bossuet took a moment to absorb the words that had been spoken, and then turned towards Combeferre.  
“After a fashion,” he confirmed and shook Combeferre’s hands in greeting. “Not quite the excitement you seem to have had, at least.” His eyes quickly darted to Madame de Cambout, who had risen from the couch as well, self-consciously crossing her arms over the soiled – but chaste – nightdress.  
“Madame!” That was Joly, who had apparently caught up with the situation, and he focused immediately on the woman in their midst, with a genuine concern and worry that was at odds with his bickering just a moment before. “I have heard dreadful things.”  
“All of them true, I am afraid,” she replied, sadness shining in her eyes, contained by an iron grip. And then, softer, “all of them true…”  
Lamarin watched the young medical student fuss over Madame de Cambout without reservation or second thought, checking on her condition, making her move arms, legs and shoulders and breathe deeply to be certain that she was more or less unhurt. It seemed that the recognition of Combeferre, who had spent the night in the same apartment as her, was as much a medical student as Joly was, had been ignored. But she indulged him, and for at least a moment, it chased the dead look out of her eyes.  
“Glad to see you unharmed,” Lamarin felt himself spoken to as he watched the scene and turned to find Bossuet who, after having gained his attention, placed a quick hand on his shoulder. “And glad to see you’re…” he gave a quick nod to the papers that were on the table, forgotten for the moment, but did not elaborate further. “You had us worried there, for a moment.”  
Lamarin pondered this for a moment. There had been moments – in fact, many moments after the jester in Issy had started throwing knifes at them, hitting Jacques and Sylvain, and lord knew who else – where he had thought himself lost in a haze of fear.  
But things had become better; with a good night’s sleep, the illusion of safety among comrades, and the task at hand. He was still scared, but lucid, at least.  
“I’m better,” he therefore confirmed, with some certainty, and Bossuet pressed his shoulder, before taking his hand away. There was a comforting sort of camaraderie in his demeanor that faded well into the spirit of the room which held the air of a comfortable reunion. They all knew each other so well – so much better than the Cougourde, which consisted at times of these, at times of those people, depending on who was actually there. There was a steady shift of people travelling from Aix to Paris and the other way round, and no week was exactly the same as before.  
This group - the Amis de L’ABC, felt more like a single, living, breathing being brought together in a synthesis of minds. And in the face of the adversity, they had only been brought closer, one looking out for the other with the ferocity of a brother or a loved one.  
The Cougourde, he painfully remembered, had scattered everywhere when the attack had come.  
“That’s the spirit, boy,” Lesgle nodded in appreciation and turned towards the rest of the group, while Hélène de Cambout, taking a basket from Joly that apparently held the promised fresh clothing, vanished into the small washing room.  
“So,” Combeferre began after a moment’s silence. “What now?”  
There was an exchange of ideas on their situation and of what was to be done. Enjolras, while being specific in the fact that he wanted to see every single one of them at the Musain at nightfall, had been much less detailed about what he expected to happen in the meantime. In principle, the day should be dedicated to the settling of dust – and to the investigation on what had happened, as Combeferre insisted.  
Classes, however, were fully out of the question.  
And there had been one command from Enjolras that could not to be ignored.  
No one was to be left alone.  
“Madame de Cambout will have to go to the authorities,” Lamarin finally said. This was one of the things he actually had already figured out. “She needs to give your account of the night to them, so that no shadow of a doubt can fall upon her role in all this. Even though,” he hesitated for a moment, “I am not so sure that it would be wise to reveal Mademoiselle Éponine’s involvement in this…”  
He was not sure what the gamine had done at the house of the Cambouts, and neither Combeferre nor Enjolras had raised the question. But given her appearance and the overall situation, Lamarin thought, he would probably rather not know.  
“I will tell them that I ran. As simple as that.”  
She stood in the door, having changed into a simple dress of washed-out blue, that was a little tight around the waist and too long into the bargain, but not overly so. She looked less dishevelled now, and although still pale, she seemed to have regained some sort of footing, at least.  
After a moment’s thought, Lamarin found he could not find fault with that.  
“I’ll take you,” Combeferre offered immediately. “And after that, to your parents’ home maybe, I would wager.”  
She nodded, and it was decided that Bossuet and Joly, wherever they would roam for the morning, would come and get Combeferre from the Dufrancs’ residence at midday.  
Until then, Joly suggested, mindful of Lamarin’s account of the Issy events the day before that they should try their luck at the Necker. It was closer to Issy than the Hôtel-Dieu, and chances were good that they would find more information on those members of the Cougourde that had been injured by the assault of the jester.  
And thus they parted, leaving behind the empty apartment, and set off into the busy Parisian streets.  
He was pale and silent, and looked nothing like himself.  
In a spacious room with the sunlight only insufficiently shut out by closed curtains, Lamarin stared at the feverish figure of Jacques Morier and wondered how a man that seemed insurmountable and indestructible when standing, could look so small.  
His chest was wrapped in bandages, and there was a thin sheen of sweat covering his face even though the room was actually fairly cool, despite the warm May sun. His eyes were glassy and it took a visible effort to focus his gaze on Lamarin. His breathing was labored and seemed to pain him.  
The doctor had warned them. He is not well, he had said, but not wanting to deprive a potentially dying young man of the comfort of his friends, he had allowed the visit on the promise that it be brief.  
“Marc,” Jacques rasped, for the Cougourde had taken the habit of calling one another by their first names. It was as if giving a shell of familiarity opposed the warmth that interlinked the Amis de L’ABC, who as a rule used their family names as addresses between them.  
The young man nodded in response and took a seat on a chair next to the bed, while Bossuet and Joly stood at a small distance. The former wore a frown on his face; the latter so clearly worried, it would have been almost ridiculous had Lamarin not known by now that the concern was actually genuine.  
“Jacques…” he began, even though he had no idea how to proceed. The man lying in this bed had so little to do with the man of dark, vibrating charisma that he remembered and admired.  
It was almost like returning to a place of childhood dreams, only to remember that the enchanted willow was nothing more than a gnarled, old tree and the wishing well was a dirty opening long since run dry.  
“I am glad that you made it out of this alive,” he said, despite this revelation, or even because of it, and Jacques coughed painfully.  
“Some life,” he answered, screwing his face in pain for a moment. “That wretched jester I fear may yet be successful.”  
“Don’t say that,” Lamarin intercepted right away, and this earned him a surprised look from Jacques, who apparently had not expected this. “That’s certainly not going to happen.”  
Jacques snorted in an emotion that Lamarin could not place.  
“What are you going to do to prevent it, hm?” He shook his head. “We’re crippled. For the moment, the Cougourde are scattered like sheep without a shepherd.” His gaze focused on Joly and Bossuet, who were standing close to one another at the foot of the bed. “I fear we’re small help for you at the moment. Tell Enjolras, that he should probably not count on us for any time soon.”  
“I’ll certainly do no such thing.” Bossuet settled the matter right away. “I might tell him that you’ve received a bitter blow, but that is all that there is to it. We may yet sort this out.”  
“We were not the only ones to receive an attack.” Lamarin had been dying to pass that information on to Jacques, but now, the man was hardly in a state to receive it well. Behind his feverish eyes, thoughts were going slow, and he had trouble to focus on his young friend.  
“Meaning?”  
Lamarin in few words relayed what he had heard during the last hours, the attacks; both successful and failed, and the events that came with them.  
Midway through his speech, Jacques closed his eyes, and when Lamarin had ended, the older man’s voice was slurred, pained, and only with difficulty he managed to get the words out.  
“Ill news indeed, Marc.” He took a moment to gather his breath. “Ill deeds, ill news. We…”  
Jacques broke off mid-sentence.  
Lamarin stared at him, and felt something akin to horror. Joining the Cougourde had been the scariest – and best – thing he had done in his life. Despite his fear of falling into events that were too big for him, and too monumental at that, he had still agreed with the goals, and had still agreed to take back the stolen revolution into the hands of those that brought them about. He had understood what Jacques had said then, that those who dared to take the fight for their rights to the streets merited their share of the bargain, and that royalty and selected bourgeois, too clever for their own good, had ridden the tide that was driven by others to come out on top.  
The measure of a man, Jacques had said, should be his deeds and capabilities in battle and strife for justice and good. Not his capabilities of whispering the right things into the right ears.  
This, to Lamarin who had grown up in a household with a mother sporting the most popular salon of Aix, had been the sheerest music.  
But now, this dream was falling apart at the seams. He could feel the door that had barely opened to him shut again, and with finality this time.  
He would, he could not have it.  
“I need to know where they all live.”  
That brought Jacques to open his eyes again.  
“Marc?”  
“I need to know where they live. I know that Sylvain and Armand are here as well, and I will speak to them, but if I want to find the others I need to know where they are. They’ll not return to Issy after what happened.”  
He found himself with a raised brow.  
Jacques Morier, when in full possession of his forces, was able to radiate friendliness and displeasure in almost equally frightening measures, depending on the situation and his own inclination.  
At the moment, the expression was so warped by fever that Lamarin did not even recognize it.  
But he remembered the cheer that had risen in the Café Musain as he had arrived with Bossuet and the others after their excursion to Rue Plumet, and the friendliness, warmth and relief at seeing everyone safe and sound.  
Not knowing about the others from the Cougourde was unbearable.  
“You?” Morier asked, slightly doubtful, but Lamarin nodded with conviction.  
“I am here. So I do it.”  
And Jacques, true to his convictions to judge a man on his deeds and his strength, honored this statement and nodded.  
“Very well,” he said. “I’d take notes, if they were you.”  
“Seems we just found ourselves an agenda for the day,” Bossuet commented as they left Jacques Morier to his feverish dreams a few minutes later. “Not the worst thing to do.”  
“Indeed,” Joly commented, shielding his nose from the hospital air by means of a handkerchief. “I am surprised anyhow, that none of you has taken this upon him yet.”  
Lamarin nodded, maybe a bit sadly, skimming the list of addresses that he had trouble locating in his still patched-up understanding of the streets of Paris. It was indeed odd that none of the Cougourde had showed up here yet, but he guessed that they were hiding.  
As he would have done, had he not run into Bossuet, Joly and the others.  
“We are not like you, I fear.” He finally summarized the revelation that his observations during the last hours had brought him too, and it was not without regret.  
Joly, however, laughed at that.  
“Be happy about that, my friend,” he commented, clapping Bossuet’s shoulder in a fond and slightly jesting gesture. “Another Courfeyrac or – lord beware – another Enjolras might just be a bit more than this city could take.”  
Lamarin was about to protest, to remark that there was indeed very much of Enjolras in Jacques, but he hesitated because indeed, there was a difference. It was difficult to place, but profound nonetheless.  
“Forcibly yes,” Bossuet agreed and shook his head. “And with all the misfortune in the city centered on me, I would be very surprised, if you would not find all your comrades safe and sound.”  
Joly made a dismissing sound, but Bossuet’s cheerful attitude rendered this unnecessary anyhow. The older man placed his arms around both his friends’ shoulders, a brotherly gesture of support and cheer.  
“Come on, my friends. Let’s find these stray sheep of Morier’s. I make a good sheepdog, so never you worry.”  
“All bark and no bite,” Joly commented to Lamarin exclusively, even though Bossuet heard of course, and gave a world-weary sigh.  
“Such is the way of my life. Misconception and misfortune in abundance.”  
And thus they set out, towards the next rooms where the remaining injured of the Cougourde were to be found.  
And Lamarin, even though the situation was still every bit as hopeless as before, could not help feeling slightly more optimistic about it.


	16. The many virtues of Gavroche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the heart of Les Amis regroups and the Thénadier siblings have a chat

**Chapter 15: The many virtues of Gavroche**   
_“What do you want?”_   
_”Never ask that question.”_

Marius Pontmercy woke to a slightly burning smell and the glare of the sun through the partially closed curtains. It threw a beam of light somewhere in the vicinity of his field of view and drew him from sleep efficiently.  
For a moment, still half-wrapped up in dreams of an enchanted garden and the terrors within, he felt disoriented, unable to understand why the pillow under his head felt flat and hard. But then memory dripped back in small pieces and he began to recall the events of the day past…which reminded him of the burning smell once more, and he quickly opened his eyes wide in earnest alarm.  
There was no need, however.  
The smell was originating from the stove where a young boy stood, concentrating on the act of preparing something to eat.  
Or trying, at least.  
Gavroche had apparently lit the fire and was whistling softly to himself as he busied himself by burning a couple of eggs that had not been available in the evening before. He seemed bent and concentrated on his task, not noticing that Marius had awakened, and merrily dashed some salt that he had found – the lord knew where – onto the mixture in the pan.  
“Hey little man.”  
Marius turned lazily on the couch to see Courfeyrac propped on his bed, suddenly struck by a recollection of dark days of golden friendship. He found himself back when he was still struggling with the transition from a baron’s son to a student trying to fend and account for his own expenses; where he had spent a good three months on this couch as an offer of his friend to help him get along.  
Things had evolved since then. So had Marius, but he had neither forgotten the help, nor the friendly comfort of those days.  
Gavroche, being thus spoken at, turned around and grinned broadly.  
“Made breakfast,” he announced proudly and pointed towards the contents of the pan with a spoon. Courfeyrac raised a suspicious brow, rubbing his hands over his face to clear his thoughts from sleep.  
“Where did you get the eggs?”  
Gavroche grinned cleverly.  
“Madame from downstairs came by to bring you letters,” he explained readily. “They’re on the table. I asked her if she had something for breakfast. Promised to run an errand for her afterwards.”  
Courfeyrac sighed, but couldn’t hide a smile. Resourceful as ever - Gavroche.  
“Gavroche…” he sighed, dismayed at the explanation he would certainly have to deliver to Madame Allevesse sometime about this. But then again, maybe a gamin in his room was slightly better than the one time she had caught him here with Marie... “That’s my landlady. Please, don’t do anything to aggravate her. I like that flat.”  
“Don’t worry. Told you I liked it, too. Even though it’s no elephant.” Gavroche used two hands to lift the iron pan from the stove and carried it to the table, placing it there with such a distinctive ‘thunk’ that it made Courfeyrac flinch, fearful for the safety of the wood. “Breakfast’s ready,” Gavroche announced, unfazed.  
Courfeyrac exchanged a glance with Marius. Wordlessly, they decided to indulge the boy, nodding towards one another before they both got up, still in their clothes from the day before.  
They took turns at cleaning up; Courfeyrac supplying a fresh shirt to Marius, whose old one still bore the remnants of the stray shot he had received, while the other helped Gavroche set out the table.  
Finally, as they sat down - Courfeyrac encouraged the boy to distribute his cookery between the three of them - steps on the stairway outside the door heralded the arrival of visitors.  
One of them was expected. The other, in all honesty, not so much.  
Enjolras, albeit rather tired, had an energetic look about him that indicated he had been awake for much longer than either Courfeyrac or Marius. Yet accompanying him was a rather careful, suspicious Éponine. She did not enter the room with the same confidence as her companion, and chose to linger at the door in the unobtrusive manner of hers that he had come to know.  
Across the table, and to Marius’ astonishment, Gavroche froze for just a moment. His fork clattered a bit too loudly onto the plate, but he quickly recovered and continued to dig in.  
Carefully, Marius observed Éponine, who gave him a wan smile from where she was standing.  
“’Ponine,” he greeted her. “Is everything alright?”  
She gave a small shrug and took a few steps towards him, her hands hidden in the folds of her skirt. He realized the sling had disappeared. “How’s your shoulder?” In response, Eponine shrugged the good one.  
“Better,” she said. “Not perfect just yet. Still, much less trouble than it probably was intended…”  
“I still feel bad for this, you know?” Marius got up to face her at equal height, and her look softened to something curious as she slightly cocked her head, teasing him a little. “You shouldn’t have done it.”  
“What I do or don’t do is for me to decide, Marius,” she reminded him softly. “You don’t get to say, you know?”  
It was indeed, not the first time that he heard this. Éponine prided herself in her independence, and he did not grudge her this triumph. The girl had a life difficult enough, what with her family and the circumstances being what they were. In fact, he was glad that unlike so many of the destitute, she had been able to retain her spirit.  
“I haven’t forgotten,” he gave back. “Still, I can say thanks, can’t I?”  
“You should know what you can and can’t say, don’t you think?” There was a slight twinkle in her eye, and it made him laugh in spite of everything. It made him laugh in spite of her sudden and worrying appearance, and in spite of the flash of the knife that seemed to stand between them like an invisible wall.  
“Tease,” he gave back, and her face lit up with an answering smile. “So yes. Thank you again, Éponine. As soon as I can think of something to repay you for this, I will.”  
For a moment, she seemed to want to say something. She hesitated as her lips opened, as if in doubt. Then, she was interrupted by a soft, yet determined cough coming from Enjolras.  
Marius turned around.  
“Ah yes,” he said, seeing that the leader of the Amis de l’ABC had taken a seat at the table already and was looking at the pair of them with a slightly reproachful look. “Excuse me, Enjolras,” Marius backed off and stepped aside. “You want to sit, Éponine? Have some of my breakfast, if you will. Gavroche made it.” Gavroche had burnt it indeed, and even though it was not inedible, Marius was not that hungry. Éponine took the seat, but declined the food.  
“So, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac began, pouring some water for all of them – it was still a tad bit early for wine for one who was not Grantaire. “What happened?”  
It was all the encouragement he needed.  
The moment Enjolras began to talk, Éponine realized that she should have addressed the issue of her role in the events in Rue d’Olivel with him before they had arrived.  
She had gone through relentless pain to make sure that Marius had never found out what exactly it was that she was doing when she was on her father’s errands. But now the deed was done, and all she could do was listen in a mixture of horror and anxiety to his words, wondering if she would ever get the chance to stop him in time.  
She threw him more than one imploring gaze, but he seemed not to notice. His steely blue eyes wandered between Courfeyrac, Marius and Gavroche in turn, securing their attention with an ease that was enviable.  
However, as she sat there, heart pounding fiercely and as tense as a bowstring, she realized that her fears were unwarranted.  
Enjolras smoothed over the Rue d’Olivel events in the most skilful manner, mentioning her role as Hélène’s savior. But rather than going into all the details, he made it look like a coincidence, and with such conviction that she could not help but feel a quick rush of gratitude for his consideration.  
Any questions that someone may have had were lost in Courfeyrac’s rumble of outrage.  
He shot up from his sitting position and took to pacing, trying to fume of the worst of his anger as he ran his hands through his short, dark hair.  
“An outrage, an absolute outrage,” he muttered, stopping abruptly in his steps. “What’s going to be next, Enjolras?” he asked, and with some sense of wonderment, Eponine realized that there were tears in his eyes. “Alexandre of all people! Just… gone…” He shook his head and ran his hands over his face. “Just like that…”  
Enjolras pressed his lips together, nodding. There was a determination in his eyes that Eponine suddenly realized, masked a sorrow of his own.  
The night before, it had been obstructed by her own fear and disorientation, also by the very obvious worry of Combeferre for Madame de Cambout. But now here, there was again a hint of the elusive bond between the friends and those that associated with them.  
Marius, to complete the trio, had hidden his face completely in his hands. Eponine’s heart went out in response to his anguish, and she got up to briefly place a hand on his shoulder in a timid gesture.  
His skin, even through the thick cloth of his waistcoat was so warm…  
Beneath her touch, he took a deep breath and removed his hands from his face. A few tears had left wet, glistening traces on his face.  
“How is Madame faring?” Courfeyrac asked, his voice slightly wavering as he stepped behind Gavroche. He put his hands on the shoulders of the gamin who allowed it, chewing his lips unhappily.  
“She is brave,” Enjolras answered, folding his hands before him. “As was to be expected. But she is devastated, of course. I left her to sleep – Combeferre is still with her.”  
“Small comfort, at least,” Courfeyrac answered, but if Enjolras understood the hint, he did not show it. “Still…” He shook his head again, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “What shall we do?”  
“We shall show that we are not intimidated, of course!” Apart from Gavroche, Enjolras was the only one still sitting down, and he brought his hands flat on the table as if having come to a decision. Apparently, he had already planned the next step.  
“We have to assemble our brothers. Let us meet in the Musain this evening. All of those that we can find. Let’s bring together all those that we can. We will spend the day walking the streets of the city, finding our allies, and we will renew the bonds and our common goal this evening in the Musain. We shall do a head count on those that are closest to us. And we shall make sure that all of us know what has happened and what is at stake. Assembling those, we then can probably gather all information on the face of the enemy that there is to be had. Which reminds me – Ma… Éponine…”  
She flinched at the surprise of being spoken to and turned towards Enjolras, half-curious, half suspicious.  
“What?” It came out harsher than she had intended, but he did not seem to mind. His stern face betrayed nothing but determination and reflection.  
“I would like you to speak to Feuilly this evening. He has a gift for the art of drawing, and you have now seen two of the attackers. Since I seem to remember…” there was the hint of a smirk around his mouth, accompanied by a minuscule inclination of his head that might have meant respect or mockery. “Your description of the man attacking us was very accurate. Perhaps, Feuilly will be able to convert it onto paper.”  
Éponine wanted to protest, or at least argue at the assumption he was taking, but she never came to it. One word gave the other, one thought the next. Les Amis de l’ABC; friends; partners in crime; and companions at their best.  
“Maybe when some of the Barrière du Maine come, we can even have a couple of drawings,” Courfeyrac nodded, picking up Enjolras’ trail of thought quickly. “That way, we could distribute it. We could even…” but then he hesitated, throwing a quick glance at first Marius, then Enjolras. “… can we still print those on leaflets?”  
“Whether we still have the resource of Le Globe remains to be seen,” Enjolras answered. “Though, I suspect that Madame de Cambout will not give in so easily. However, we should not bother her with this today. Anyhow…”  
He reflected for a moment, his fingers dancing on the table in a rhythm of their own.  
“We should go to Bahorel to have them help us find the others”, Marius added. “That man knows every nook that they may be hiding in; he’s going to be invaluable. With the group we will be, we can split up and cover more ground like this.”  
Éponine watched the students plan out the day in front of them, much in the same way as they had done back in Enjolras’ apartment; with Lamarin fidgeting and Combeferre hardly being able to leave the sleeping Hélène out of sight. Again she was struck by the implicit trust and easy companionship between them.  
“I’ll have to go, though. Got things to do. Places to be.”  
Éponine’s words were unexpected – almost at odds with the air of planning that had taken hold of the room, and she winced internally at her rough tone that had cut through the mood like a silver knife.  
They had had to be uttered though, and the students fell silent, watching her.  
“Éponine, I’m not sure that…”  
Marius’ gaze was one of concern, and she reveled in it for a moment. But it was not to be helped. She had dallied long enough.  
Her father was in jail, and her mother and Azelma might not even know about it. To make things worse, she had put herself on quite a spot this morning, and even though she had no idea how she would sort this out yet, it definitely needed to be done.  
However she would manage that.  
“Don’t worry about me,” she said in an off-handed tone, yet allowing a small smile for him to creep on her face. “I’m bulletproof.”  
“Knife-proof, more like,” Courfeyrac said with a twinkle. “That is a trick you will have to teach me someday, Mademoiselle. Comes in handy, these days.”  
It was a strange notion, being teased thus. Marius, however, shook his head.  
“There are murderers on the loose, Éponine,” he protested. “I thought I could stand up against them, but I couldn’t. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”  
His concern was warming, and yet… it had a patronizing feel to it that she did not fully like.  
“You, Monsieur,” she therefore said, a teasing smile softening her words, “are a rich man pretending to be poor. I am just Éponine. I’m from here. They won’t even know me.”  
Enjolras took a deep breath of acceptance.  
“And again, you are not to be swayed, I see,” he replied. “I trust I will see you in the Musain this evening, though?”  
Éponine was on the verge of declining, even as his gaze locked on her, serious and unnerving. And yet, she did not feel as compelled to resist as she had yesterday, or this morning, or after having breakfast with Enjolras in the streets of Paris. There was a subtle shift in the ambience of the room in comparison to how things had been in the back room of the Musain yesterday, and in the way she felt.  
She could not place it right away; fishing for thoughts that slipped through her fingers vehemently until a notion finally stuck that had a ring of truth to it.  
True. Enjolras had – again – presumed her willingness to help them in their deeds and doings, but this time had been different in a very subtle way. As plans had sprouted and as one word had led to the next – their words became easier to follow with practice. She noticed offhandedly that there had been a task for her among the others; a single line in the story which was, indeed, a first in this group.  
It felt as if she was… included in their dealings. Included.  
It had been a slip of the tongue; she was almost sure that none of them had even thought about it. But that changed neither fact nor implication.  
Her only experience in that sort of sentiment was being included in the plans of her father and Patron-Minette, and that was, of course, a completely different kind of activity. Here, to hear her name in the whirlwind of hopes and schemes was something that she had not been prepared for.  
And so she nodded before she had further time to think on it, and found her admittance being reflected by a nod of his own.  
“Very well,” Enjolras said and got up slowly. “I could reiterate what I have said yesterday, but I think we have already exchanged these arguments, have we not?”  
Éponine frowned as she nodded. Strange man…  
“Then all that remains for me to say are words of thanks for your help this morning, M… Éponine. It was well appreciated. And I hope that I will see you in the evening, safe and sound.”  
She nodded, and again he offered her the peculiar greeting that seemed to be a trademark of his, clasping her arm in a curt gesture before, to her utter surprise, he let her go without resistance.  
Marius looked as if he was about to protest.  
But he didn’t.  
And Éponine was back out on the streets, left to ponder the strange turns her life had threatened to take lately.  
“Oi, ‘Ponine!”  
Gavroche hurried after her, having excused himself from the company of Courfeyrac and the others with some haste after seeing his sister retreat from the apartment to go about her own business. Éponine was quick and experienced on her way through the streets, but Gavroche was quicker, smaller, and knew his way around.  
When she heard him call, she didn’t try to run.  
“Little one,” she greeted him, turning around and smiling carefully. That was good. It had been a while since he had seen her smile. Or at anyone, for that matter. “How are you?”  
“Not stabbed,” he gave back and nodded towards her shoulder. “You okay?”  
She followed his gaze and made a dismissive gesture.  
“Don’t worry,” she answered. “Not worth mentioning. I’m fine.”  
Gavroche nodded, and together, the two of them set out on their road through the streets. If she was fine, she was fine. She knew her limits. After all, she was still alive.  
Gavroche followed Eponine, who apparently seemed to know where to go. He did not mind that she led him without question. There was enough time to check on the boys later.  
“That was them, wasn’t it?” he asked a few steps further, voicing one of the questions that had driven him out of Courfeyrac’s comfortable apartment. He had noticed his sister’s anxiety at Enjolras’ report, and this told him all he needed to know. Nonetheless, it was nice to see her nod, even though her face closed like a slamming door, and even the memory of a smile seemed suddenly like a very ridiculous notion.  
“Care to tell me what really happened?” he pressed on, and this earned him a shrug, along with the true tale of the events last night in Rue d’Olivel and this morning in La Force. While she spoke, they continued through the streets up onto Place Saint Michel, where Gavroche sat on an upturned crate, Éponine leaning against a column, her face forbidding and closed. The gamin felt sad for his sister. In the manner of years, she had gone from an easygoing, lively creature to this closed shell of a girl. Her father’s harsh words and harsher hand, the ball and chain of a reputation, the occupation and darkness of the Thénardiers lay heavily on her heart.  
This was one of the reasons why he had been glad – surprised, but glad – to have seen her in the company of Les Amis yesterday and today. She usually hung about Marius, but never really mingled.  
Gavroche was firmly convinced that Les Amis were the best people in the world. And that, between all of them, there was nothing that could not be sorted out.  
“Sure that was clever?” he intercepted, when Éponine told him how she had given her own word for Enjolras’ trustworthiness in jail to her father and Patron-Minette. She recalled how he tried to question them and how they refused to answer.  
Her stony face softened slightly, and she let her gaze wander over the square.  
“Not really,” she confessed. “It seemed the only thing to do, though. They wouldn’t have told us anything, otherwise.”  
“Probably right,” Gavroche answered. “Still – does he know?”  
Wordlessly, Éponine shook her head.  
“You should tell him,” he advised. “He’s clever. He may have ideas. Plus, he’s okay.”  
“Gavroche!” It was the first time she turned to fully look at him since the serious part of the conversation had begun, and Gavroche realized that there was a torn, confused notion in his sister’s eyes. “I am not bringing a bourgeois into the dealings of Patron-Minette or my father. It’s bad enough that he already has an inkling of what is actually going on with them – and me, for that matter.”  
“Marius already is in father’s dealings,” Gavroche reminded her, almost brutally. “What’s the difference? He’d help you, I’m sure. You’ve seen already. He didn’t betray you. Enjolras does know the first rule of the streets at least. He doesn’t do anything stupid.”  
Eponine snorted, and Gavroche realized that it had been the wrong thing to say.  
“I can’t agree on that.” She unleashed the anger, fury and confusion of the last twenty-four hours onto her little brother. “That man is trying to start a bloody revolution.”  
“Why on earth would that be a stupid thing to do?” Gavroche did not understand his sister’s reservations. They were leading, essentially, the same life of being downtrodden by those of higher birth and inheritance. He was free, at least, while Éponine was in chains, but it still didn’t make sense for her to scorn the cause of Les Amis.  
“A few students against the National Guards? Well, I wouldn’t know why that would be stupid…”  
Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, and Gavroche frowned.  
“It wouldn’t be that way,” he contradicted, remembering what Enjolras said. Or rather, what they all continually said.  
The people are on our side. They will rise and fight with us….  
“Gavroche…”  
Her face had softened a bit.  
“I may be no high and mighty educated student, but from what I know we tried that twice before, right? The first time, the streets were bathed in blood, and then we had an emperor. Second time, we ended ourselves up with that king we have now, and we all know how well that’s worked out. So why bother?”  
“Three times’ the charm?” Gavroche suggested courageously, and Eponine shook her head.  
“Little brother,” she said, and there was an equal measure of fondness and bitterness in her voice. “You are so young.” Sadness had crept in her voice that radiated over to him. “It’s not working that way. Father’s probably right; it’s a world where the strong eat the weak. Better be strong then. There’s no such thing as helping people just like that.”  
“They helped you,” Gavroche contradicted. Eponine’s gaze however, continued to wander over the place, and her brother wondered what was going on in her mind.  
“That was probably tit for tat,” she said, and the gamin was surprised at how dejected she sounded. Lonely, he thought with a flash of intuition. Lonely and lost.  
His heart went out to her, but on the other hand, he would not see his friends’ generous nature mocked.  
“Not true,” he contradicted. “They like you.”  
She closed her eyes, and a muscle in her cheek twitched.  
“Gavroche,” she said for what felt the hundredth time. “I don’t want to argue with you.” She turned towards him and attempted a smile that did not reach her eyes. “I am glad if you’re happy with them. Enjoy it. I have to go back to mother and Azelma to tell them what happened.”  
So that, Gavroche realized, was then the source of her foul mood. She still felt responsible for her father – still felt that she had to sort out a way to bring him out of prison. And telling her, their mother what happened would certainly not end pleasantly.  
He only dimly remembered how things had been when he had still been living with them, and he had made it a habit of visiting that particular part of his memory only very seldom and briefly.  
There was not much room for pardon in the face of failure.  
And Éponine was running free, while the rest of them were not. That did not make up for an enjoyable afternoon.  
“I wish you would just leave them,” he said.  
Éponine shook her head.  
“And what about Azelma?”  
“She’s way older than me. She could…”  
“But she’s not you!” Éponine gave back, and he had to admit that this was somewhat true. Their sister did not share the spirit either of them had. “We’ve been over this, Gavroche. We shouldn’t go there again.”  
He nodded, sadly. When it came to their common family, conversations were running in circles, indeed. But Gavroche did not give up that easily.  
“So,” he said. “You gonna get father out?”  
She nodded absent-mindedly, and he grinned and cocked his head.  
“Need any help?”  
The building he was finally shown to was dirty and rundown, and to his own surprise he knew it well.  
He had spent many hours in the vicinity, strolling through the wild greenery next to it, hiding and watching. He wondered what on earth would possess a baron’s son to live in a place like this; somewhere dirty, crooked and long past its prime.  
It had fairly quickly led to the friend to the hypothesis that Pontmercy’s money was supporting the dealings of the rebels.  
He still was one of the figureheads, and that had kept the hound on his track.  
But today, he was not here for Marius. Not… only him, at least. The young man had not shown during the whole day – he suspected he had crawled somewhere together with his friends – but he was here on a different errand that had not yet been completed.  
He knew he shouldn’t. The friend would be furious, he would learn, but he was what he was. He just needed to know.  
He waited almost the whole morning until, an hour before midday, she finally made an appearance.  
She was holding her arm slightly awkwardly, but that was the only outward sign of the run-in they had had yesterday, and yet every moment of the encounter was imprinted into his memory with mesmerizing clarity.  
She had gotten away…. She had taken away his prey from him.  
It was a part of the ancient game of hunting; the prey trying to outsmart the predator. It was thus imperative for the three students that he had been trailing to try and get away from him and his intent.  
But the mingling of an outsider…  
It was infuriating, intriguing, wrong and right at the same time…  
He had never seen it happen and it shook his world to the core.  
He watched her as she approached the tenement and hesitated a moment before entering it, taking a deep breath before the plunge. With the wind, he imagined he could sense something of the scent he had caught yesterday; dirt and anger and youth, and he inhaled, watching her with burning eyes from out of his hideout.  
Not now…  
The street was too crowded, and she was too quick. The building was full and there would be no panic. She was cleverer than the students. Did the right things. Watched the right corners.  
Not easy prey….  
He watched Éponine Jondrette enter the tenement and settled himself for a longer watch.  
He had nothing, if not time…


	17. Tournament of lies and truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Combeferre realizes, that there are situations he cannot change for the better and finds an ally in an unexpected place

**Chapter 16: Tournament of lies and truths**   
_“Always plant a lie inside the truth. It makes it easier to swallow.”_

“Monsieur l’Inspecteur?”  
Slowly, Javert turned away from the window surveying the yard of La Force, towards the young prison guard that had entered the room. He had watched the hustle unfold before his eyes during the last few minutes; soldiers with only a minimum of discipline crossing the court, criminals walking from here to there. Hustlers crept, beseeching, lying, and plotting at times amongst one another, sometimes with the guards.  
It was a den of both villainy and sin.  
Javert wondered how deep the rottenness of its inhabitants had spread into the very marrow of this prison.  
Yet, as he met the gaze of the young soldier who had come to fetch him – a deceivingly innocent face that still looked partly that of a child’s – he was as calm as he could be. Although his face was that of a youth’s, his moustache seemed to accentuate rather than hide his slightly immature appearance. His hands were clasped behind his back, face schooled into an expression of neutrality.  
“Yes?”  
“Monsieur le Commandant will see you now.”  
Javert nodded. The fact he had been led here to wait was a telltale sign of a reproach that would not be given verbally. Just enough to put him in his place, but not enough to elicit any real offense.  
The games of the vacuous and the vain. He knew them as well as he knew their rules.  
But he prided himself in being above those petty notions.  
He had a goal to pursue and no time for idle sport.  
Monsieur le Commandant was a man about Javert’s age whom sloth, security and elevated position had allowed to him to become stout. His formally brown hair showed prominent signs of grey, and a moustache covered his upper lips and stretched out to his cheeks in a well-groomed manner.  
He was sitting behind a sturdy wooden table as Javert entered, and slowly got up to greet the inspector with a friendly handshake. Javert had to admit – the man was hiding his thoughts well. His slightly puffy face betrayed nothing but a certain interest and seriousness.  
“Inspector,” he greeted his guest, motioning for him to sit at the other side of the bureau which was conspicuously bereft of paper, only decorated with a few pens and trinkets. “Can I offer you something?”  
Javert shook his head. Like for games, he had no time for pleasantries.  
“I would prefer we cut straight to the point.” That may have been a bit rude, yet it was best that it was out right away. Everything else would certainly not be suited to relax the situation.  
Monsieur le Commandant shrugged, and opened his hands in a jovial gesture.  
“As you wish, of course, Inspector.”  
He smiled.  
Javert felt ill at ease.  
Technically, Monsieur le Commandant had no authority over him. He was a member of the National Guard which existed in unison, more often than not in dissonance with the municipal police that Javert belonged to. Briefly put, he was military, or had been at least before comfortable living had turned him into what Javert was seeing now. Javert, on the other hand was a civilian, an investigator. He was an agent of the government, but still a civilian, and under the authority of the Prefect of Paris directly.  
That in itself was a rare thing; most inspectors and investigators were placed under the one of the commissaries, in charge of a quarter or faubourg, but a chosen few like Javert were called to investigate those crimes that passed the artificial borders of the administrative subunits of Paris.  
So technically there was the police, and then there was the National Guard.  
Practically, as everywhere where the amount of bureaucrats surpassed the amount of people doing work, it was a mess.  
Therefore, Javert was sure that Monsieur le Commandant did indeed, have some sort of indirect authority over him.  
It was an unclear situation, and he did not like it. Yet, his own path was unambiguous.  
“I have visited La Force,” Javert therefore began, “in pursuit of an individual that is suspected of the crime of murder of a citizen going by the name of Alexandre de Cambout. It has been brought to my attention that a number of suspects have been taken this night at the mansion, where the crime has taken place. However, when I came to question them, I have been told – and I have no reason to doubt this statement – that two of their numbers were missing. One of them was a man of remarkably short height, about the size of a child of twelve, the other one a young man, dark brown hair and average height. I have the suspicion that at least of this one, there should be a warrant around, but I will have to verify this.”  
“Hm…” Monsieur le Commandant spread his fingers in a thoughtful gesture. “Two missing, you say.”  
Javert fought down annoyance.  
“Two missing from the same cell that is holding three more, I should say,” he added, not without sharpness in his voice. “This would be a highly unorthodox prison break.”  
Monsieur le Commandant shrugged in an almost careless gesture.  
“No offense Inspector, but you have no idea about the amount of unorthodoxy there is to be had when it comes to prison breaks. Human creativity – especially in crime – is near endless.”  
“That I am well aware of,” Javert bit back. “It seems to me that at the very least, it is unlikely that those two would take off without bringing their comrades with them. But I am willing not to dismiss this theory at this point in time.”  
“So bring the other three to justice,” Monsieur le Commandant gave back, seemly unfazed. “You have three, what do you need two more for?”  
Javert was beginning to doubt his hearing. He prided himself in having a good perception on the nature of a human being, even at a quick glance, but he would have preferred to be wrong about this one.  
“It is my duty,” he explained, as if speaking to a child, “to bring to justice those who are guilty. And while these three are certainly guilty of the offense of theft, I have reason to believe that they did not kill Alexandre de Cambout.”  
Indeed, the words of the three criminals were of course not to be believed in general, but Javert did have a feeling that there was something about the dwarf that all of them mentioned, yet no one seemed to really know him.  
The story became even more intriguing, given the fact that Javert very well knew who Alexandre de Cambout was. And what he was doing.  
And that Sebastien Enjolras, general rabble-rouser, disturber of peace in this city and a law student with revolutionary ambitions had turned up at the cell of the attackers of Rue d’Olivel this morning.  
A day after the deaths of several well-known figureheads of the more republican kind.  
Whatever this story was, simple it was not.  
However, he had no reason and certainly no inclination to divulge his thoughts to the commander.  
“And you believe those men?” came the predictable question, and Javert leaned back in a study of patience he was certainly not feeling.  
“In this, I do. Yes. In addition, I have spoken to the Guard on duty when these men were brought into the prison and he confirms the capturing of both individuals.”  
Something quickly flashed through the eyes of the Commander, only to be very quickly dispelled again.  
“Ah,” he said, a moment at loss, and Javert closed in on his prey.  
“Therefore the question that remains is what happened to these two men. The way I see it, there are two possibilities. Either you have had a very interesting flight from one of your cells, or the men have been taken, by you or by someone else. This would mean that you are hindering the municipal police to carry out their duty in which you are sworn to assist.” This was slightly stretched with the actual nonexistent chain of command between Javert and the Commander, but he tried it nonetheless.  
It worked.  
For the moment, a muscle in the jaw of Monsieur le Commandant twitched erratically, and then he got up – not without some difficulty, as Javert noted – went over to the door to turn the key and shut the outside world out.  
“Monsieur l’Inspecteur,” he began, a trifle uneasy. “Since you are not to be swayed, and since I do not want to be seen in hindering the work of the police, which I indeed hold in the highest esteem, there are some things I can divulge to you. However, I will need your word that these facts will be treated carefully. I do understand you have a duty to your superiors, but you will have to understand that I have a duty to mine as well.”  
Javert distinctively did not like how this started. However the words of Monsieur le Commandant were not fully without sense. Therefore he nodded.  
“Go on.”  
“I have reason to believe that neither the two men that vanished, nor the three still in custody are responsible for the death of Alexandre de Cambout. Let me elaborate.”  
He took to pacing, a slightly comical act given the figure he cut.  
“The two that have been removed from custody already have been, for a few months now, actually in the service of the government. We have had some reason to believe, that they had been moving in – or close to – criminal circles, and thus we have enlisted their help in bringing down a few individuals. It’s not an uncommon practice, I’m sure you’re aware.”  
Javert raised an eyebrow. Indeed, he was aware, even though he personally did not like to resort to this sort of tool unless there was no other alternative. It seemed wrong to chase away the devil with images of Lucifer.  
“I am,” he therefore continued cautiously.  
“Therefore,” the Commander continued, “I have it on fairly good authority that none of the five that have been brought here have indeed killed Alexandre de Cambout. But there is something else to consider.”  
Slowly the Commander turned towards Javert, meeting his raised brow with a wry expression of his own.  
“You may notice that this drama is still a protagonist short. One question, Inspector. Do you have any idea of the whereabouts of the widow?”  
At this time of day, the entrance hall of the Préfecture de Paris was a busy place indeed. Messengers filed in from the local commissionaires’ offices, bringing in the reports of the events of the day past to be filed into the archives of the municipal police. Inspectors and visitors alike crowded the entrance hall.  
There was a steady buzz of noise; of members of the police discussing, both amongst themselves and with the visitors that tried to pry information on this or that case from them. There were sounds of silent crying and hectic arguments, of the steps of too many people, both slow and quick, a cacophony of activity, fear and excitement that was frightening and overwhelming all the same.  
In the far corner next to the windows going out onto the street, someone had placed a couple of chairs to accommodate those visitors with the patience or inclination to quietly bide their time. All of these were occupied as well.  
Amongst those who sat there, bourgeois and miserable alike, each in their own distinctive corner sat a young man in a slightly rumpled shirt and a grey waistcoat. The cravat around his neck was bound, but carelessly, as if he had not given it the attention it might have deserved for the occasion.  
He seemed calm, a man with slightly unruly, light brown hair, lost in his own thoughts. His gaze turned half to the windows on the far side of the hall, and he might have seemed a bit queer to those surrounding him because his occupation was slightly unusual, especially at a place such as this.  
From his pocket, he had taken two sets of brown glasses about the size of his palm, and raised them to the light coming from the window. He looked through them with a slight frown, turning them one against the other, observing the changing effects within.  
It took a very careful observer to see that his hands were trembling.  
The polarisation of light…  
Light passing a glass medium tilted at the right angle will exhibit a unique sense of direction, an absolute sense of polarisation that is then intrinsic to it and as much a property as its brightness or color.  
Thirty degrees, Professeur Arago had said the angle was. But it was difficult here with the light coming from all directions, even though the sun was shining through this window specifically, and this was the light Combeferre was trying to use. He needed something to focus on, something to pass the time. To avoid letting his thoughts run wildly at a time like this. Worry was omnipresent. And Hélène had been in there so long…  
He turned the second glass, observing the dim shade coming through it. Did it become darker?  
The polarisation of light…  
It can be created by both reflection and transmission, and the angle is unique and intrinsic to each material. It can create the most striking and surprising effects. Two beams of opposing polarization will not interact, two polarisers demanding contradicting angles will let the light vanish…  
A darker shade caught his attention for a moment, and a rush of excitement swept over him as he saw with his own eyes what Arago had spoken of. Unfortunately, his hands were unsteady and the effect was gone before he could examine it further.  
How much time had passed? Time – there was another concept. It was almost as fickle and difficult to grasp as the capricious properties of light. How could it be that time passed so quickly when he was at the Musain among his friends, discussing and laughing and sharing ideas, while here, the clock seemed not to move at all, and every second seemed an eternity?  
The polarisation of light…  
It’s all about the angle and the object. A unique combination of reflection or transmission, of shades and color. In fact, light itself, if used properly, is beautiful.  
When she emerged from the deeper reaches of the Préfécture, he recognized her immediately. Standing at the door she had just closed behind her, her eyes scanned the entrance hall, obviously looking for him. He took a moment to take in the state she was in – taut face, posture rigid and pained, but fully composed as her quick eyes darted around, spotting him in a manner of seconds.  
She did not smile. But she held his gaze.  
The polarisation of light.  
It’s all about the light, what it hits, and how you perceive it. That’s the secret of beauty.  
He got up, wrapping the glass back into the soft leather he had taken it from and placed it back into his pocket. Looking up, he saw Hélène approaching with determined steps and the same, dead expression in her eyes that she had almost continuously worn since she had so unexpectedly turned up yesterday.  
“Madame,” he greeted her when she was close enough to be appropriately addressed, and she nodded in response, giving him what passed for a wan smile.  
“Let us leave, Monsieur Combeferre.” The urgency in her voice was well-veiled, but not unspotted by him, and he nodded, falling into step at her side with practiced ease.  
They left the Préfécture unhindered.  
A few moments later, they were sitting in a hired fiacre that was on its slow way through the packed streets of Paris towards the mansion of the Dufrancs. While Combeferre did not know exactly, where they resided, the driver seemed to know, and so the cart set out without any hesitation, while Combeferre, sitting across Hélène, desperately looked for something to say.  
He wished she would cry. Not for the reason of being able to comfort her, but simply because it was more than clear that she was frozen in her grief. It was like some twisted form of hibernation, much akin to a tree in winter which had taken all its life and strength to its innermost core, to weather the storm and the cold, at the cost of limbs and branches, to retain some small chance of survival.  
He had known her for a year now, and knew her to be lively and spirited, interested in everything she saw, full of questions and opinions, her dark eyes never still, never stopping to wonder. Now, looking into her eyes, he saw nothing but the reflection of himself.  
She stared out of the window, seeing nothing.  
Maybe, if she cried, some life would return to those eyes. To see sorrow would be better than this cold, silent, composed, incredible pain.  
“How did it go?” he finally asked, and she gave a minute shrug, the fingers of her right hand slightly worrying the crude lace of the dress she was wearing.  
“Not unexpected,” she said neutrally, blinking away any expression that might have colored her face. “They had many questions. I answered. Most truthfully.”  
“They held you in there for a long time.”  
He was stating the fact because there was nothing else he could say. There was a rift between them that was wider than the river Seine and much less easy to cross. Her posture radiated refusal, and he dared not approach any further than she would have him.  
That was the credo of them, always.  
“They were probably diligent,” Hélène replied. “And of course the issue of me spending the night at the place of a friend raised some eyebrows.”  
Combeferre shook his head.  
“What wrong is there in you seeking a haven somewhere after such an event? One would think this a natural reaction.”  
Slowly, she turned her face away from the streets before her to watch him.  
“I ran from the police that was in my home already. And not to my parents, not to their friends. I ran to you.”  
When put in this manner, it did have an unfavorable ring to it. Given the state in which she had arrived at Enjolras’ apartment yesterday, it was a good indication that she had not been thinking clearly at that moment.  
“So you told them nothing of Mademoiselle Éponine.” It was not really a question, but her lips twitched slightly in something that valiantly tried to be a smile, one of the wry expressions that indicated a dry sort of humor. But it fell apart at the edges and her eyes were still dead.  
“I suspect I would have badly repaid her kindness of saving me from that attacker.”  
She turned away abruptly, back to the streets that she watched but did not see. The lines under her eyes were deep.  
“True…” Combeferre concurred. “But still…” She closed her eyes and he fell silent. There was no point of any discussion or any planning now. Perhaps it had been a bad idea for him to go with her. He should have sent Joly. His comrade’s natural friendliness had elicited the only glimpse of the woman he knew. He knew he was fussing and worrying over her. Perhaps, it was indeed, though he would have it otherwise, that out of their group he was most ill suited to be a source of comfort to her right now. Even Enjolras, who not exactly comfortable in emotionally complex situations, or even Éponine, who did not know Hélène at all, would have been able to reach out to her more easily.  
It was a painful thought.  
“Perhaps I should have…” he began voicing his thoughts, even though he was not fully convinced of the wisdom of trusting his thoughts to speech. But she had started to speak at the same time and he fell silent at once.  
“I am tired,” she whispered. “And in pain.”  
She took a deep breath, eyes still closed, head turned towards the street, voice almost inaudible, as she forced soft words of cruelty past her lips.  
“But I’m glad you’re here.”  
For all the words he knew, he had no words to reply to this. So he stayed silent, watching her pale, dejected face until the carriage drew up in front of a generous mansion that was the home of the Dufrancs.  
“Madame! Madame! Mademoiselle is here!”  
The servant, a woman that looked about thirty but seemed younger in all her demeanor and countenance, did not seem to care that Mademoiselle had long since turned Madame as well. She opened the door wide and ushered them both in. “Come, come, quickly, it’s so good to see you. Madame and Monsieur will be overjoyed. We were so worried!”  
Hélène stepped in, slightly dazed, and he followed, taking a quick glance at the entrance hall they were standing in. It was generous, large and well furnished. A thick carpet covered the floor, and a staircase led upwards where several further doors could be seen.  
He had known that Hélène’s family was well-off. Seeing this place, he understood why no question of status could have stopped her marrying into what was a family of nobility.  
The door had not yet fully closed behind them when he heard quick steps on the upper stairs, and a woman of considerable format took to hurrying down the steps as swiftly as her elaborate dress would allow it. Before she reached ground level, she was joined by a middle aged man with curly hair, receding at the temples but still pitch black and thick.  
He saw her eyes in the man, and her slender face accompanied the woman’s slightly plump figure. The resemblance was undeniable.  
Feeling awkward, Combeferre stepped back until he felt the door behind him, letting the Dufrancs have their reunion in peace.  
It was the father who first checked on her well-being. He exhibited a calm manner, confident in both movements and speech. Before his eyes, Combeferre could see the woman he knew being transformed into a cherished child again; some of her posture relaxing ever so slightly in the face of the absolute trust one only has for a loved parent.  
Her father placed both hands on her shoulder as if to steady or support her, asking if she was hurt. He looked into his daughter’s eyes with a deep worry that Combeferre understood only too well. He questioned only sparsely, calmly and matter-of-fact, too soft for Combeferre to hear fully, while the mother stood in the back, fidgeting nervously.  
Hélène nodded and shook her head, responding only in soft tones, but he could see the tension seeping out of her slowly as her father finally nodded. After some further conversation, he stepped back to make way for the mother.  
She had no time for pretension, no time for soft questioning. There was heartfelt warmth in her as she wrapped her daughter wordlessly into a hug, unpretentious and sincere.  
For a moment, Hélène froze, her arms limp at her side, her posture more rigid again as she vibrated with tension.  
Her shoulders shook once.  
Once more.  
And then, silently, her whole body trembling from the onslaught, she began to cry. Her posture sagged, tension draining from her in great waves.  
For a moment, Combeferre closed his eyes in deep relief. Something that had been painfully wound close inside him slowly released, bit by bit, and he found he could breathe more freely again.  
He wondered if he should leave, having brought Hélène to her family and thus having fulfilled his errand. But leaving without a word seemed just as rude as staying, and there was no question of disrupting the scene that played out in front of his eyes.  
It was Monsieur Dufranc who resolved the situation, stepping towards Combeferre in an obvious attempt to attract his attention. He turned to give a polite bow and a nod.  
“Monsieur…”  
The older man showed the hint of a smile and responded to Combeferre’s greeting with one of his own.  
“Thank you, Monsieur for bringing my daughter here,” Dufranc said frankly.  
“Jean Combeferre,” Combeferre introduced himself, aiming at politeness, and this elicited a small smile from the older man, who greeted him with a friendly handshake.  
“Aristide Dufranc,” he introduced himself unnecessarily. “I was wondering, Monsieur Combeferre,” he said, “would you follow me for a moment?”  
His hand made an inviting gesture, and Combeferre complied, partly out of politeness, and partly because he was not quite ready to leave yet. There was a calm friendliness in Dufranc’s manner, and as he followed him, Combeferre briefly recalled what little he knew of him on the account of Hélène.  
Dufranc was the owner of a large porcelain manufacture, having made his fortune in the fabrication of dinnerware of the more common kind, striving at a certain style while still keeping the prices affordable for the common public. He had been a deputy of the chamber since before the upraising but had managed to be re-elected under the current reign as well.  
Combeferre knew little of his intentions or colors. Whatever he did, if he did anything, he accomplished it with little noise. Dufranc was the father of a friend, and as such, he would not blatantly refuse his interest.  
Nonetheless, he felt slightly on the edge as Dufranc led him into a salon. From a small table, he took two glasses into which he poured a golden liquid from a carafe.  
“Please,” he offered, and Combeferre was about to refuse – it was not yet noon – but Dufranc made an insisting gesture. “No offense, young man,” he emphasized. “But you look as if you could need it.” A wry smile ghosted over his features that instantly reminded Combeferre of Hélène. “And so do I.”  
Combeferre reconsidered. In fact, there was some wisdom in the words of the man.  
And so, as Dufranc raised his glass to his own lips, Combeferre followed suit and let the burning alcohol run down his throat comfortingly.  
Brandy. Good one at that.  
Warmth spread, starting from his chest, and he felt a slight uncoiling, taking a deep breath and following Dufranc’s invitation to sit.  
“Again,” the deputy began, “I have to thank you. For bringing Hélène here, and also for – if I understand her words correctly – providing shelter for her during this night.”  
“The credit belongs only partly to me,” Combeferre deflected the thanks. “I was actually a guest at a friend’s home myself. But whatever help I was able to provide, it was gladly given.”  
Dufranc nodded.  
“I do appreciate that. In fact, I was wondering if I could have your account of the night.”  
Combeferre wondered if he should have traded stories with Hélène on their way here. It would perhaps have been better to clarify what they would be telling, but it was too late for that. Besides, on the drive here, it had been the furthest thing from his mind. He took another sip of brandy to collect his thoughts.  
He stuck as close to the truth as possible, but he evaded the subject of Éponine altogether as he recalled Hélène showing up in the middle of the night, covered in blood and disoriented, retracing the steps that had let them here.  
Dufranc smiled, almost sadly.  
“Don’t worry about the gamine. Hélène mentioned her. I have no intention of bringing her to an unfavorable fate after hearing she saved my daughter’s life. It is noble though, that you try to protect her.”  
Combeferre took a sip of brandy and chose not to reply. He was still making sense of the man sitting across him, and he would not have that activity disturbed by incautious words.  
Dufranc let out a small laugh after a moment and shook his head.  
“Very well, Monsieur. Keep your silence.”  
He rolled around the brandy in his glass, thoughtfully watching the golden liquid as it shifted and shaped between the crystal.  
The polarization of light…  
Right until he finally lifted his gaze to Combeferre again.  
“You’re one of them, right?”  
Combeferre, drawn out of his reverie, coughed a little.  
“I beg your pardon?”  
Dufranc sighed softly.  
“Please, Monsieur. I bear you no ill will. But I would not have you think me stupid. I know very well what sort of newspaper it is that my daughter is running.” A smile ghosted over his features. “And I would be a poor father indeed if I did not have an inkling of the associates of my daughter.”  
Combeferre thought of his own family and was not sure whether he was inclined to answer this. Dufranc however seemed not to expect an answer.  
“You need not say anything, Monsieur; your face shows it clearly enough.” There was a hint of mirth in the older man’s eyes. “I might even go as far as congratulate you on your writings; some of them were very well done. Some were perhaps a trifle too radical for my taste, but then again, it is the privilege of youth to be radical, while it is the duty of old age to be wise. Is this not so, Monsieur Combeferre?”  
“Possibly,” Combeferre replied, taking another sip of brandy. Dufranc was right. He did need it.  
“Now then…” Dufranc sighed, “I have exposed myself sufficiently to you by showing that I know fairly well what my daughter is doing and have thus done nothing to prevent it. May I now hope for a genuine opinion on what happened to my son-in-law and what is the source of this?”  
The man was aggravating, changing all too quickly, and Combeferre felt slightly ill at ease. But on the other hand, this was an opportunity he had not seen coming. He had known that Hélène’s father was a member of parliament, but he had assumed that just like for most of them, turning to revolutionary ambitions would have led to estrangement between parent and child.  
Either Dufranc was a very convincing liar, or this case was different.  
Revolutionaries must be quick of decision.  
It was almost as if Enjolras were standing beside him.  
They must not doubt and seize the opportunity given.  
Combeferre decided to take a leaf out of his friend’s book.  
“If you would have my genuine opinion, Monsieur,” he prompted for honesty, “then I would tell you that someone has targeted a number of people opposing the government. They have done so in secret, and with single assassins, a synchronized attack at various places to various people, and they have been disquietingly successful. The events indicate that they have achieved a remarkable amount of intelligence when it comes to revolutionary movements of Paris, and they have struck where the hurt is deepest. They have not been successful everywhere they tried – your daughter escaped, as did the friend who provided us shelter this night. In fact, this was the reason for us being there together. It did not seem wise to split up.”  
“Indeed not.”  
Again Dufranc was gazing thoughtfully into his brandy.  
“This is ill news, Monsieur Combeferre,” he said, “and I am disquieted to hear it. Yet I thank you for your honesty. It is appreciated.”  
Combeferre drained his glass in a vain attempt to calm himself.  
“You have given me little choice on the matter,” he remarked, feeling slightly bolder, and now Dufranc laughed in earnest, a spark of Hélène in his eyes.  
It hurt.  
“A touch of defiance, at last,” he said chuckling. “You are yet what you pretend to be, Monsieur Combeferre.” He shook his head and followed suit in draining his brandy, looking mournfully into the empty glass. But when he turned to look back to Combeferre again, his gaze was serious again.  
“Again, thank you for your honesty. And thank you for keeping my daughter safe in these troubled times. I fear things are afoot, and there will be turmoil before you and I know it.”  
“That is well possible,” Combeferre concurred.  
“In my dealings in porcelain,” Dufranc explained, his eyes fixed on something only he could see, “I have had the fortune to make the acquaintance of a group of Chinese merchants who, in the same trade, visited Europe in an attempt to understand our ways and procedures in producing. I have had interesting conversations with one of them, going by the curious name of Li Mei, a very interesting man with a lot to tell.”  
He placed his glass aside, placing his elbows on his knees and looked at Combeferre intently.  
“He told me that there is a curse among the Chinese: ‘May you live in troubled times’”  
He got up and turned towards the stove on the wall of the room which was unlit and clean, but still he gazed into it as if there were a fire.  
“I fear we are cursed, you and I, Monsieur Combeferre...and my dear daughter too. And only time will tell where this curse will lead us.”  
His fingers fidgeted slightly, running along one another unconsciously; a gesture only too painfully familiar.  
“Only time will tell…”


	18. The good shepherds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which occurs a head-count of revolutionaries that is only partly successful.

**Chapter 17: The good shepherds**   
_“Raise your eyes and look at me.” “It’s disrespectful.” “I cannot have an aide who will not look up. You will be forever walking into things.”_

The little one was growing by the minute. Bossuet could see it, and it was, in a way, heartening.  
Joly, Bossuet and Lamarin left the Necker behind, turning towards the busy Paris streets. None of them would have admitted that they felt liberated by the least through leaving behind the somber gloom of the hospital.  
They had quickly spoken to Sylvain, who had received a knife wound in his leg and was, if anything, livid that he was bound to his bed for at least another week yet, and paid a quick visit to Armand. The young nobleman had been caught in a deep web of feverish dreams and had not recognized their presence. The sorrow on Lamarin’s face had been evident, even though after a while he had concurred that a watch at his bedside would have to be delayed to a later point in time.  
Now, they had work to do.  
They set out, following the addresses on the list that Lamarin had compiled with the help of Jacques Morier. On this was a list of twenty five names and addresses, the inner circle of what was called the Cougourde of Aix – of Paris.  
Little stars indicated those that were reportedly out of town; Joseph Sicar being most prominent among them. This left fourteen in Paris, three of which currently were at the Necker.  
So eleven remaining to visit.  
Bossuet and Joly had taken a quick look at the list and devised a marching order to cover as many addresses as possible in as little time as could be devised. It also fitted in with a visit at the Dufranc mansion, where they were due to collect Combeferre around noon.  
The first on the list was a small house surrounded by a wild, overgrown garden just off the Seine Quais. It was home to a silversmith and his wife, who had rented out their spare attic room to a student going by the name of Antoine Verez, a member of the Polytechnique, and currently conspicuously absent.  
“I have not seen him since daybreak yesterday,” the landlady told the three visitors sorrowfully, “he set out early and has not returned yet. Is something amiss?”  
“Not necessarily.” Lamarin calmed the woman with a careful smile. “He may just have spent too much time at the laboratories and then decided to sleep at one of his friends’ living close by. But would you pass a message to him when he returns?”  
She willingly agreed to that, and Lamarin left a quick word about this evening’s meeting at the Musain and advice to get in touch with the ABCs as quickly as possible. This was a more secure way than giving himself or any of those at the Necker as a point of contact, seeing as he had no idea if his injured friends would survive, and he could not tell where he would spend the next days.  
It had also been what Bossuet had advised him to do.  
Next on their list was Philippe Tiranien, and he was indeed at home.  
Their knocking was first answered by the sound of hectic shuffling and then deadly silence. But when Lamarin’s voice gave assurance that he was just there to check on his friends, it conjured the door open like a spell.  
Philippe shared his apartment with his sister Madeleine, a girl of fifteen, who had come up from Aix with him, seeing as her brother was her only family. Both siblings shared brown hair, dark eyes and a narrow face and looked alike enough to be twins, right down to the expressions of fear they both carried as Lamarin entered the room with the Bossuet and Joly.  
“I didn’t know what to do or where to go,” Philippe confessed to Lamarin, as the five of them sat down at the table occupying the greater part of their one-room apartment. “And there was Madeleine to consider, so I went home and hoped that nothing would happen.”  
Lamarin nodded sympathetically. For a moment, it seemed to Bossuet that he was once again the eager boy that he had met in the lectures some time ago.  
“I know exactly what you mean. This came so very unexpected… it has taken us all by surprise. And it has not only been us. Les Amis de L’ABC have been targeted as well, and there are two dead at the Barrière du Maine. Also, the owner of Le Globe is dead…”  
This seemed more information than Philippe was willing to take, and he interrupted whatever Lamarin might have said.  
“Oh, for the love of god!” he interrupted and buried his face in his hands, shaking his head softly. “What am I going to do?”  
“Things seem to have calmed down for the moment,” Lamarin tried to soothe him as he realized that he had probably frightened off his comrade with the list of gruesome events of the previous day. He placed a careful hand on the shoulder of the man several years his senior. It reminded Bossuet suspiciously of something that Combeferre might do, right down to the slightly frowning expression on his face. The boy was really learning quickly, and it seemed that he had paid quite a lot of attention. “Since the attack on Alexandre de Cambout, we have heard nothing new. We haven’t been followed, I think…” he threw a quick glance at his comrades, and Bossuet shrugged.  
“Not that I know of,” he supplied. “And we should consider that they cannot have been that many.” Taking together all that they had learned, he ticked the incidents off his fingers.  
“Saint Antoine. Issy. Us at the market. La Barrière du Maine. All of this, apparently happening at the same time. Single assassins. Then the incident at Rue d’Olivel this night.”  
“Assuming that was not the same man, that makes five.”  
Bossuet nodded.  
“So, even taking into account that some things happened that we may not know yet, I don’t think we’re looking at more than a dozen.”  
“For now,” Joly contradicted. “I mean, we still have no idea where they came from, right? If that was only the first step…”  
Lamarin shook his head.  
“I… I do not think so, to be honest.” There was still some insecurity in his voice, but much less so than before, as if a decision had been made and was now followed through. “We were completely unaware. That was when we were easiest to hurt. Now… we’re wary. And we can do something about them.”  
Bossuet pondered that for a moment. The little one, he had to admit, was right, and he said so in no uncertain words. It was then, that he noticed the stare Philippe was giving them as he softly shook his head.  
“You are all mad…” he informed them in a tone that might have been wonder, exasperation, or fear. “You are mad. Plotting and considering, and making small of the fact that someone tried to kill us, in cold blood no less…” His voice cut through the discussion that had felt only too natural, like a knife through soft skin. Madeleine looked at her brother with wide eyes.  
“But Philippe,” Lamarin started in an appeasing tone, but the young man would not hear. He shook his head again, more intensely this time before he looked at each other in turn, and took a deep breath. “I want no part in this.”  
That was surprising. But Lamarin did not give in so easily.  
“You’re scared?” he asked. “So am I. Believe me, and if you don’t, ask them.” He gave a quick nod to Bossuet and Joly, and the former wondered if it would be a good idea to concur now. But Lamarin gave no pause. His cheeks were aflame, in the manner of an excited child as he continued, fidgeting, but earnest as only a boy of sixteen can be. “But the truth is we can’t…”  
“No, Marc. That’s enough. Don’t try to pretend you’re Jacques. You are not. And Jacques is lying in hospital, if he’s even still alive. That’s the truth. That is what it got him to. I want no part in this.” Philippe shook his head again, stubborn, resisting, not meeting the younger man’s eye. “If you could just listen to yourself. You make it sound like a game! We almost died yesterday, have you forgotten? Some of us still might!”  
The two members of the Friends of the ABC exchanged a quick look, and Bossuet gave a minuscule shrug against Joly’s questioning, slightly sorrowful gaze. Nothing that Philippe said was exactly wrong. However, none of this was also exactly… new.  
“We were planning a revolution, remember?” he decided to remind them, looking at the young man with a slight exasperation born of disbelief. “That is not exactly a peaceful pastime.”  
For a moment, Philippe hesitated. And Bossuet understood. It was one thing to dream. Another thing completely to see the blood.  
“My life is not mine to give away,” Philippe finally concluded. “I… I have Madeleine to consider as well.”  
The girl did not protest.  
“But…” Lamarin tried again, but Philippe shook his head.  
“I’m sorry Marc. I really am. But I want no part in this anymore. Leave. Please leave.”  
Bossuet could see Lamarin’s shoulders slowly sinking as a dejected look appeared on his face. Not a good start for a boy just having found his courage…  
“Ah, look at this, isn’t it marvellous?”  
Grantaire stopped for a moment, taking in the scenery with a wide smile, of which Courfeyrac was not entirely sure whether it was faked or not.  
Yet, for all the faults he might have exhibited, Grantaire was not known to hide his thoughts and feelings. In fact, it often seemed as if he made it a purpose to just give voice to the first thing that came to his mind, and thus, Courfeyrac had to concur that he was probably serious.  
There was a certain irony in the fact that the two of them had ended up going towards the Barrière du Maine. This had been after the disaster a few weeks ago, when Enjolras had grudgingly entrusted Grantaire with strengthening the liasons with them. Instead, he had ended up drinking and laughing and playing dominoes, forgetting his reason for coming altogether.  
Of course Enjolras had violently argued against a repetition of that spectacle, but it had been Jehan who had finally raised a valid point that even Enjolras’ fervor could not brush away in a moment’s time.  
They all were scared.  
Les Amis probably less so, having narrowly escaped the assassin’s knife, and having found solace and company in each other, but there was no telling what the mood at the Barrière would be. They had lost the Virille brothers, who had been the bravest, most enthusiastic amongst them.  
This visit was not about lighting the fire of the revolution. That would come later, and in its due time. This visit was about companionship. About reassurance and the calming effect that the support of a friend could have. This was about regrouping, about providing a new day – and not the least about the invitation to be uttered to arrive at the Café Musain in the evening.  
If that was achieved by playing dominoes, so be it.  
Enjolras had grudgingly agreed to that. It had been clear that this sort of need for a strengthening of companionship was nothing that he could – or wanted to – understand. But he had heeded the words of Jehan, not without notifying the poet that he should, if possible listen less to Combeferre and not sport the man’s opinions in his absence.  
Jehan had smiled at that, knowing it to be a compliment.  
In addition, they had decided that no one of their numbers was to be left alone – and Courfeyrac tried to dispel both worry and disagreement at the thought that Éponine and Gavroche were currently roaming the cities of Paris on their own despite the impending danger. Actually, this concern had, to Courfeyrac’s surprise, been quite strongly shared by Enjolras, who had looked at the disappearing siblings with a curious expression on his face that Courfeyrac had rarely seen on him.  
“I can and will not keep them against their wish”, the revolutionist had said, when asked. “They are the most freeborn of us.” But Courfeyrac had heard the struggle behind the words. The battle between abstract belief and real danger.  
Anyhow, all of this meant that leaving Grantaire somewhere was simply out of the question. Whatever he was, he was one of them.  
They had decided to split up into three groups to cover the biggest possible ground. Hence, Grantaire was needed.  
Courfeyrac didn’t mind too much. Especially, since the man had not had the opportunity to drink too much yet.  
Still, he had felt Enjolras’ gaze upon himself as they had set out. His eyes spoke clearly what he had not said – and Courfeyrac knew it exactly, anyhow.  
Watch him like a hawk.  
That was not such a difficult task, given the fact that Grantaire was many things. Silent, he was not.  
And so they had arrived at Richfeu’s shortly after noon.  
The sight that Grantaire was currently reveling in however, was indeed a welcome one. In front of Richfeu’s, they had spied a group of three young men discussing amongst themselves who then lifted their heads towards the newly arrived.  
“Look who decided to show his face.” Pierre Lafargue was the first to speak. He was the oldest of the group, a marble worker, his hands rough and weathered from the day-to-day work with stone and chisel. Courfeyrac had met him at the Musain once and knew him to be a man overflowing with generosity, laughter and daring. He had taken a liking to him immediately, but had only met him twice. The other two, unknown to Courfeyrac by name, grinned at them and greeted them in a friendly manner. They remembered Grantaire. Courfeyrac was welcome by extension.  
He didn’t mind, but couldn’t wait to repeat that fact to Enjolras, just to see the look on his face.  
They were ushered into Richfeu’s, into the mists of smoke and into the circle of laughter, offered a drink and placed among them. They were sitting together, enjoying the hour’s rest that their work would allow them around midday.  
They were distinctively not mourning. Quick words and quicker jokes flew between them, dominoes and dices were out. Drinks were flowing too freely for a simple lunch break and bets were high, probably higher than what those journeymen artisans could afford. But no one minded, and they just went on.  
Two of them joined into a reckless, uncouth song that would, in the Musain, only be heard at the latest of hours – and certainly only when Enjolras had left. They clapped and cheered all through it, as if there was not a single worry to be had.  
The Virille brothers’ ghosts were sitting amongst them, and everyone was trying not to see.  
Grantaire, predictably, could not resist joining the brawl, and all too soon he was caught up in the game of betting and gambling with Courfeyrac being powerless to stop it. He barely could keep himself from joining in.  
It was almost – almost like having a good time, like enjoying youth, life and boldness. But Courfeyrac, for all his dash sensitive to the undercurrents and shifts of the room, could not find it in him to fully get lost in it.  
In fact, the spectacle made him sad.  
And yet, he put a brave face to it because he knew that there were no words of consolation, no words of calm that would command this storm to silence. There were things, that had to be ridden out, and this was one of them.  
So when Lafargue challenged him to a game of dice, Courfeyrac did not resist.  
The first game he lost, but Lafargue had already had much more than just one or two glasses of wine, and Courfeyrac knew well the secret arts of gambling and bluffing.  
Fortune turned in his favor, while at the other table things were going exactly the opposite way for Grantaire, who lost but did not complain. Instead he boasted on the levity of feeling free, free of responsibility, free of charge and, ah yes, alas, also free of money.  
For a moment, Courfeyrac wondered if he should intervene and stop this. The other friends of the ABC would probably expect it, but that would not have been well received by those around him; they were too far gone in their own dreams of denial to listen to reason. But that was just as well, because Courfeyrac was not very reasonable and let the thing run its course while concentrating on his game with Lafargue.  
Which was, on the whole, going well.  
“You have had me there,” the marble worker said finally, when after another few games including some more daring bets from Courfeyrac that turned in favor of the student, had robbed him of most his money. “Like always, the bourgeois has the upper hand on the revolutionary.” He shook his purse to show that he had no money on him to concur to Courfeyrac’s last rise of bets. There was a rueful smile on his face, and Courfeyrac shook his head good-naturedly.  
“Ah, you do see these things in a much too gloomy light. One can be both, you know?” Courfeyrac contradicted. Suddenly, the chance was there, an opening unexpected, and he seized it without hesitation. “So, what do you say,” he proposed, finding he could not wipe a grin from his face. Perhaps it was smug to rejoice on one’s cleverness, but then again, no one had requested him to be an angel. “Instead of a rise, you convince your friends to show up at the Musain tonight.”  
Lafargue squinted.  
“What?” he replied suspiciously, but Courfeyrac shrugged.  
“Just a proposal. We finish that game. I win; you and your friends make an appearance at the Musain this evening. I lose, this money is yours.”  
“Hmm….”  
Lafague pondered this for a moment. From the next table, Grantaire’s good-natured complaints could be heard.  
And then the marble worker shrugged.  
“Why not?”  
And unlike Bossuet, Courfeyrac was known to be very lucky.

 

Two apartments further it had become clear, that despite Bossuet’s fears, Lamarin had not fully lost his spirit. He seemed dejected after the unfavorable start into their mission, but he did not give in as easily as he would have thought. The next two visits had been slightly more successful, and the two scared but not dejected students had joined forces in the second one’s apartment, promising to come to the assembly in the Café Musain in the evening.  
It seemed that the decision the young man had taken in the Necker held firm also in the face of the first adversary. And this was an encouraging thought.  
The third address was a tenement of moderate quality. It was run-down, but well cared-for, and Stéphane Barilou was said to live on the first floor, third door to the left. No one answered their call, but as Lamarin knocked on the door, it swung open without any resistance.  
And left the three of them staring at the open mound of a gun.  
Lamarin recoiled and bounced against Joly, who had raised his hands – the walking cane dropping to the floor with a loud clatter.  
“Careful…” Bossuet sidestepped the open mound to get a peek of the man behind, trying to avoid the danger of being hit by a stray bullet. It was Stéphane as far as he could tell, with deadly determination in his eyes.  
A moment passed before the member of the Cougourde realized who had come to visit him, and he let his gun sink down.  
“Lord in heaven, Marc,” he greeted his young comrade. “You gave me a fright.”  
“We gave you a fright?” Bossuet replied drily, fingers illustrating what he said. “That’s an interesting conception coming from a man with a gun.”  
“Last time someone came here,” Stéphane said, as he sidestepped to let his visitors enter the small apartment, “I was fairly glad I had that gun.”  
Marc frowned, as he followed the unspoken invitation into the room.  
“What do you mean?” he inquired as they grouped around yet another table, being offered (and refusing) yet another time something to drink.  
“What I just said.”  
Stéphane placed the gun before him on the table. Now that he took a closer look, Bossuet saw the lines beneath his eyes, the traces of tiredness. His shirt was rumpled and the waistcoat dusty and dirty. Several books lay scattered about, open at various pages, and a half-eaten meal stood at the stove in the corner.  
Bereft of his gun and sitting calmly on a chair, Stéphane radiated fatigue.  
It was unlikely he had gotten any sleep that night.  
“Are you unharmed?” Joly, ever the doctor, looked at him concernedly. Stéphane seemed momentarily taken aback by that question before he shook his head, running nervous fingers through his brown hair.  
“No lasting damage, I would say.”  
“So the man from the fair came back?”  
Stéphane nodded.  
“Oh yes. At least I think it was him.” His gaze wandered to the window which was now closed and barred. “He introduced himself through that window over there, just as I was going to sleep. Luckily I heard him. He was not quite silent enough to be completely unremarked. Just as well; I had the pistol ready after the events of that day.”  
“You hit him then?” Joly could not fully ban the excitement out of his voice, but Stéphane shrugged, slightly at loss.  
“Frankly, I am not sure. I would like to flatter myself that I did, but honestly I cannot say. It was dark and he was pushing his way through the curtains. I had a brief glimpse at his face, and I think it may have been the same man we encountered at the fair, but I cannot swear it either.”  
“That’s curious…” Joly tipped the ground with his retrieved cane multiple times in thoughtful contemplation. “They have not done that anywhere else.”  
“Anywhere else? They?” Stéphane gazed between his three visitors with wide eyes. “What are you talking about?”  
And it fell to Lamarin to tell the tale of the day and night past. Stéphane pondered the new information, his fingers nervously fiddling with the handle of the gun.  
“I see,” he said. “So I probably acquired the uncertain honor of having his attention.”  
“Doing what?” Lamarin asked, curiosity alight in his eyes. He was really growing into the role of being visible, as opposed to hiding behind the backs of people older than him as he had done before. Stéphane gave him a slightly predatory smile.  
“Asking the right questions, probably,” he said, not without pride. “I probably I came a bit too close to the truth.”  
“This sounds like an interesting tale,” Bossuet encouraged, curiosity peaked.  
“Well,” Stéphane explained, “I assume you all know the attack took place at a small fair in one of the carrières in Issy. When the attack had occurred and everyone scattered, I tried to follow the attacker.” He shrugged. “The man was quick as lightning but I saw him vanishing towards Les Invalides, and then across the Seine before I lost track of him. I assume he must have hidden somewhere and then removed his mask and jester costume, and then I feared I would not recognize him from afar.”  
Stéphane rubbed over his face with both hands. The tiredness was more visible by the minute. Now that he was not alone anymore, he could allow himself to relax.  
“Hence, I went back to the market. It was fully deserted, of course, but the gypsies were still there packing, and so I undertook to talk to them. As it turned out, they did not know the jester. He was there on his own accord, and they had already debated to chase him away. However, as it seems, business was good enough so that there was no urgency.”  
“Bad luck for you,” Bossuet commented, feeling this to be inside his expertise.  
“Indeed,” Stéphane concurred. “However, there was an elderly man that told me something interesting,” he continued his tale. “Apparently the way of juggling that the man used seemed to be familiar to him. He said that he associated it with another family he once knew, but he had not heard from them in something between five and ten years.” A wan smile danced over his tired features. “I’m under the impression that they don’t keep track of time so diligently.”  
“Was that surprising to him?” Joly asked. “I do not know much of those people, but they travel around, meet and separate, don’t they?”  
“Yes,” Stéphane agreed. “That is so, and hence I cannot tell for certain. However, he deemed it interesting enough to comment on this… and that should be remarked at least.”  
“You have the name of that gypsy family?” Bossuet inquired.  
Stéphane nodded. “Roussata.”  
That was an unfamiliar name to all four of them. Still, Bossuet thought, it was good to know. It might come in handy sometime later.  
“So you probably were a bit too close to the truth,” Lamarin concluded. “That’s very good to know.”  
Stéphane nodded.  
“If anything, the fact that he showed up this night is an indication for it. But… excuse me Marc, I do not want to deviate from this subject, but could you tell me… what happened to Jacques, Sylvain and Armand? I suspect you know. The gypsies told me they had been brought away, to hospital presumably, and that is all I know.”  
And so Marc Lamarin began for the third time today relaying the story of the injuries of his friends, of the offer of a regrouping in the Café Musain this evening, and of holding steadfast in the face of bloody adversary.

“Good lord in heaven, Feuilly, I swear I’ve never been so glad to see a man in my whole life!”  
Feuilly could have heartily said the same to John Sellers, who was the first of the group assembled at a corner in the slightly run-down tavern to jump up and greet them with a hug. More accurately, it was a hug in Feuilly’s case, and enthusiastic handshakes for Marius and Enjolras who entered after him.  
Feuilly had spent his day at work in the small atelier down by the river, not so far from this place. This was where he toiled, together with three other workers on the assembling and painting of fans, and the comforting smell of paint and coal still clung to his clothes and hair like a never forgotten perfume.  
After spending the night in Joly’s apartment, they had decided that circumstances were not worth him risking his employment, and the two of them had dropped him off before moving on to Enjolras’ apartment.  
The task of meeting him in the evening had fallen to Enjolras and Marius. They in turn had spent their day at the university learning that the attacks that had targeted the revolutionary groups had not extended to the slightly less organized assemblies that were the faculties among the students. La Sorbonne was fully undisturbed by the events of the day and night past, and that in itself was good news.  
From the atelier, they had set out towards the “Joliet”, a slightly seedy tavern that was the home base of the Saint Antoine group, in the hope of meeting some of the workingmen there that formed the heart of this movement.  
From a first and quick head count, almost everyone seemed accounted for and in relatively tolerable spirits.  
Trust John Sellers to do what had to be done. This was obviously his work.  
Feuilly had known the Englishman for three years now, ever since the young man had arrived in Paris as a journeyman carpenter on his wandering years. He had learnt to appreciate the city, his colleagues and finally Jeanne, a grisette born and bred in Saint Antoine.  
He had never talked of going back to Portsmouth since, and in fact Jeanne, now Jeanne Sellers, was sitting amongst the Saint Antoine brothers as if she belonged there.  
Most of the members of the assembly worked as carpenters in the various workshops along Rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine and knew each other well. It was tangible in every word they said.  
A few moments later, Enjolras, Marius and Feuilly were comfortably seated amongst the carpenters and factory workers that formed this group and conversation was shared over a glass of wine.  
“It’s good to see that you have assembled despite what has happened.”  
“What else was there to be done?” John Sellers’ French was heavily accentuated, but otherwise fluent after his three Paris years, and he had slipped into the role of the spokesman of the group with ease.  
Feuilly thought that there was some beauty in this. No one cared where John Sellers’ cradle had stood, and his friends took him as a comrade, nothing more and nothing less.  
“Indeed,” Enjolras concurred with a pointed look in Marius’ direction that was lost on the young baron.  
“So, you were attacked as well?” John Sellers took a big swallow of cidre; he had never learnt to drink wine, and the stout ale of his home island seemed to be the only thing lacking in France, as far as he was concerned.  
Feuilly nodded.  
“We were indeed,” he confirmed, “even though we were lucky to escape unscathed.”  
Sellers nodded.  
“As was young Lucien here,” he said, clapping the shoulder of the man sitting next to him. The man made a dismissive gesture.  
“It was not half bad. It was just that I was pretty certain I was being followed.” He grinned. “Went to the market to find some comrades of mine. I think that’s when he took off, then. Actually, at that time I thought him to be… someone else.” There was only the slightest hint of unease in his voice, but Enjolras turned to it like a hawk to its prey.  
“Meaning?”  
Lucien squirmed slightly, uneasy under Enjolras’ gaze. It was a notion that Feuilly did not begrudge him; the man’s stare did take some getting used to.  
“I may have borrowed money from one or two people,” Lucien confessed finally, and Enjolras relaxed, curling back languidly, losing interest in the trail of thought altogether.  
“Ah,” was all he said as he closed the case.  
“Anyhow,” Lucien continued, “the crowd probably scared off whoever it was.”  
“Strange,” Marius said, a frown appearing on his forehead. “If one considers that we were attacked explicitly in a crowd.”  
Feuilly pondered this for a moment. He had already remarked the same thing, and had turned it around all day, twisting the thoughts and issues amidst all the leaves and ornaments he had been painting.  
“Night, day, hidden, open… I would say that there is not much that is common between how they act. It may be that this group is composed of very different men,” he finally voiced the conclusion that had struck him some time in the afternoon, amidst ivy of green and red. “Whatever is binding them together, it must have combined a very diverse group.”  
“That is not as unusual as that, is it?” Marius commented with a smile. He looked from the almost aristocratic seeming Enjolras to Feuilly in his worn waistcoat, smudges from the paint still on his fingers, then on to sturdy, bearded John Sellers with calloused carpenter’s hands.  
“True,” Enjolras commented. “So the imperative is to find the common element.”  
“Apart from wanting those dead that oppose the government,” John Sellers iterated drily, but the humor was lost on Enjolras.  
“Apart from that, yes,” he confirmed soberly. “I meant – beyond the obvious.”  
“Could it be some kind of private course of vengeance?” Marius wondered. “Someone assembling a number of sinister people? They would probably be paying them.”  
“That or it is some government incentive. Or some agents of the police, operating in secrecy. I have heard that such things happen. Or it could be a group of madmen.” Feuilly had indeed had the time to give the matter some thought. It had not been the most agreeable thing to occupy his thoughts with while he was working, but it had provided enough of a diversion nonetheless. “At this point in time it would be difficult to exclude any of the options.”  
“True.” Enjolras brought both hands flat on the table before him in a gesture that was characteristic. “This is why we still must continue to gather what information is there to be had, as Combeferre has so acutely put it.” He turned to Sellers. “We have roughly two hours until nightfall, Sellers,” he said. “At nightfall, we will assemble at the Café Musain, with all those that we have been able to reach. Can I count on you to be there as well?”  
“The Musain… that’s at Place Saint Michel, is it not?” Sellers pondered. Enjolras nodded.  
“It is.”  
“That’s all good and well then, Enjolras,” Sellers responded with a jovial ease that seemed intrinsic to him. “We’ll be there in full numbers. Don’t you worry.”  
Feuilly felt almost proud.

A few hours before in Picpus, things were looking much less bright. Jehan found it difficult not to feel disheartened at their lack of progress.  
“All right. That is quite enough.”  
Bahorel apparently felt similarly as he shook his head. They were staring at yet another set of empty, silent windows, and another closed door that had not given a reply to his knocking.  
This was the fifth attempt of contacting any of their associates in Picpus, and all of them had been equally unsuccessful. They had passed at various houses and two factories that Bahorel knew of, but neither had been at home, nor at their work which they had been able to get hold of from one of the members of the Picpus section.  
“I have to say,” Bahorel continued, pushing his cap into his neck and scratching his head carefully, “I’m somewhat run out of addresses.” He looked around at the moderately crowded streets. It was past lunchtime and most residents of this area were either at home or going about their business, and a slightly pensive look crossed his face.  
Jehan was at loss at what to say. His contacts with their friends from Picpus had been virtually nonexistent before – it had been mostly Combeferre and Bahorel who kept up this connection – therefore, he could be of little help. He knew that the area was mostly bourgeois, not quite as rich as Saint Germain, but well-off, nonetheless. Combeferre had related that the Picpus group was probably the group that in composition and spirit was most akin to Les Amis de l’ABC. Enjolras had ferociously argued against this, claiming that Picpus, indeed, was not holding steadfast yet and much work still remained to be done. He had even gone as far as sneering at their meeting place – a fairly well-off tavern just off the cemetery – claiming it to be awfully elaborate.  
They had been to that tavern already, finding it deserted as well.  
But the thought of their meeting place brought back the memory of something else Combeferre had said. After a moment’s hesitation, Jehan spoke up.  
“Did they not meet from time to time, somewhere on the cemetery?”  
Barohel whirled around to him, and his eyes lit up immediately.  
“Jehan, for a dreamer, you’re magnificent,” he gave the off-handed praise that he was prone to distribute without further thought, then slapped a hand against his forehead. “Why didn’t we think of that before? Of course they do. Come, come, hurry up. No time to lose. We should have done that from the start!”  
He set off in the direction of the cemetery, leaving Jehan to trail behind in a slightly dazed manner, struggling to keep up step.  
“If nothing else, there will be Frater Antoine, and he will certainly be able to tell us if he has seen any of them.”  
“Frater Antoine?” Jehan inquired. Bahorel was more than willing to explain.  
“He’s one of the Fraters of Picpus; an older one, to be certain. Maybe even from the start of when the Fraternity was founded, but who really knows. Anyhow, from what I’ve been told, he’s been as much as one of them. Nevertheless, that sounds odd – a Frater in support of the revolution.”  
“Well…” Jehan carefully answered, “I am not sure it is quite that easy. I know they were founded to strengthen the church after the Reign of Terror, but they do a lot of work for the poor. Why would they not be supportive?”  
Bahorel laughed.  
“Because they’re churchmen, Jehan”, he gave back good-naturedly. “The day one of them is in favor of any change, no matter how it looks, is the day you my friend stop to wish for love eternal.”  
That stung, for all its good-naturedness, and Jehan fell back to his silence, while they approached the cemetery.  
Frater Antoine was in his late forties, a man with graying beard and receding hair and had a comfortable air around him that allowed one to feel at ease. His friendly face was slightly crude, a chubby nose reddened cheeks spoke of a joy of life that was not too natural in a churchman. In another life, he might have been a tavern owner or the friendly patriarch of a bourgeois family – this century’s tides and turns had swept him into the service of god, and he seemed content with it.  
According to Bahorel, he had been a supporter to the Picpus section for a while, acting as a point of contact, providing shelter and passing messages between the revolutionaries. He seemed to have slipped in a sort of fatherly figure, not quite included, but certainly still part of the movement.  
Seeing Frater Antoine and his friendly, open face, it was not difficult to believe how this had come to pass. Jehan found him easy to like.  
Jehan and Bahorel met him in one of the small side chapels of the cemetery. They found him replacing the candles with calm, studied, careful movements, and as he turned, he gave both of them a smile.  
“Monsieur Bahorel,” he greeted, his gaze wandering on to Jehan. “And Monsieur…”  
“Prouvaire,” Jehan supplied, by way of introduction, and Frater Antoine nodded. “It is a pleasure,” he said, putting aside the candles he still held in his hand and turned towards the two students, shielding his hands in the wide arms of his robe. “What brings the Friends of the ABC to this place?”  
Bahorel, who knew the man, took the lead while Jehan was left to watch.  
The chapel was small, only four benches in front of a tiny, crude altar, the paint of which had faded a while ago. A few candles – some fresh, some of them burnt down almost to stubs – lit the dim room. It was evident that they were also clearly responsible for the patina that clouded the small windows. The room appeared somber, dark and serene, a fitting chapel for a cemetery.  
The place was in an almost charming state of decay, not rotten enough to be disgusting, but certainly faded enough to indicate former, old glory now gone through the darkness of ageing.  
He thought it a fitting metaphor for the times they were finding themselves in.  
“That is disturbing news indeed,” Frater Antoine responded, as Bahorel had finished his tale – which he cut short – on the attacks of the Friends of the ABC, as well as his inability to locate any of the members of the Picpus cell. “I had not expected this.” He gave a small, almost rueful smile. “Of course, there always was my hope, that the tides could be turned without resorting to violence – but I fear that this will fall on your deaf ears as much as it fell to the deaf ears of my boys.”  
He took a look around, his face bathed in twilight in the dark of the chapel.  
“However, I had hoped… not so soon, and at least not in this manner.”  
His face lingered for a moment on the cross standing on the altar, a sorrowful gaze in his eyes, shaking his head.  
“We are all in god’s hands, as it seems,” he sighed finally, and turned back to Jehan and Bahorel, as if having come to a resolution.  
“So, what would you have me do?”  
“Have any of them been here since yesterday?” Bahorel asked, and Frater Antoine shook his head.  
“I am afraid not, my boy. I have seen some of them the day before yesterday, but that also was only four of them. You do know they usually meet in Les trois canards?”  
“We’ve been there already,” Bahorel contradicted. “It’s still closed.”  
“I see… so, what can I do then?”  
Bahorel readjusted his cap, as he often did mid-thought.  
“Well, I guess that you would know more about where they usually are. If you could just try and find some of them that would be splendid. There’ll be a meeting at nightfall, at the Café Musain. For as many of us as we can find up until then.”  
Frater Antoine frowned thoughtfully, his gaze wandering to the candles he had put aside.  
“That can be accomplished, for sure. I suspect I should begin immediately.”  
“No time to lose,” Bahorel concurred. “I truly hope you will find them all.”  
A notion of sorrow crossed the holy man’s face.  
“Yes,” he said pensievely. “I hope so, too. Although after what you have just told me, this will require quite an amount of faith, I fear.”  
“We should have faith, as long as there is hope,” Prouvaire intercepted. He would not have his friend and this interesting churchman give up on their associates so easily. “It will leave the world to be a brighter place.”  
There was a surprised smile on Frater Antoine’s face as he turned to Prouvaire.  
“A singular young man, you are,” he said. “And those were beautiful words. I thank you for them.”  
He turned towards Bahorel again.  
“I know it is unusual, but could you probably finish…” his gesture showed towards the almost burnt-down candles, “my duties here for the moment? After all this, I think I should get to work immediately.”  
Bahorel looked surprised, but Jehan stepped in. This was small repayment for the help the man was offering.  
“I can do it,” he said, stepping towards the candle.  
“Thank you, boy,” Father Antoine said, and was out in a shuffling of sandals and rustling of robes, leaving Jehan and Bahorel in the silence of the small chapel to replace the candles, hope and pray.


	19. The innkeeper|s children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see various Thénardiers, all of them on their own errands.

## Chapter 18: The innkeeper’s children

_“The willow is deceptively strong. It bends, but it does not break. Its roots are deep and can withstand the worst storm. It promises rest, and shade, and cool breezes to those who would find rest beneath it.”_

Éponine entered her home as if entering a battle.

And it was quite possible that that was not too far from the truth.

The Gourbeau tenement swallowed her whole, with its smells and sounds, the odors of the cooking of today, yesterday and the days before. The quarreling of the various families that lived here mingled with less favourable stenches, but Éponine was long used to it and strolled towards the tiny apartment of her family without hesitation.

But that resolve was born rather of a stubbornness that was intrinsic to her. It refused to slow down in the face of something that should not be frightening or confusing to her at all.

Reality however, was different.

How much, she wondered, can one change in a day?

Returning home – for all the home that the Gorbeau tenement had ever been to her – brought into sharp relief that she was subtly not the same person that had set out yesterday in the morning to visit a market together with Marius Pontmercy.

Maybe it was the life threat she had since experienced which had brought this about.

However, if she was to be completely honest with herself, she would have thought that it had less to do with the hectic day she had. On the other hand, it had everything to do with a room full of friends, a strange, eternal friendship, and an elusive moment of belonging had crept upon her unawares.

And maybe, just maybe, with a wry smile and rueful gaze beneath those golden curls that did seem wondrous to her, a companionship that she would not trust yet, but was tempted to. It was easy to appreciate, but still foreign, if she was to be honest with herself.

All the same, this pensive mood was not productive when dealing with her mother.

She squared her shoulders as she entered their flat.

It was of course, a long shot from the beautiful house of the de Cambouts that she had been in, or from the comfortable, though not quite as luxurious lodgings of Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

Even Marius’ hovel in the top floor of the tenement seemed more agreeable to her. But that might of course been because it belonged to him.

And yet, the coldness that seemed to linger in the walls had never been quite as striking as this day.

But there was no time to ponder this. Her mother whirled around at her entrance.

She was larger than Éponine by almost a head, and even in the state of decay that they found themselves in carried probably twice the weight of her. Her hair had fallen into disarray, standing around her face in wild, unruly strands, only partially tamed by a bonnet that, a decade ago, probably had been white.

And she was not in a good mood.

“Where have you been?!”

Éponine did her best to shrug nonchalantly. Her mother obviously was on the lookout to take whatever anger she was harboring out at someone. There was nothing to do but ride it out – and give as much cover as possible.

She stayed where she was - two steps away from her - and eyed her warily.

One wrong step and she would be out the door in a blast.

“In hiding,” she said. “The job went bad.”

This did not do much to appease her mother, however.

“What happened?” she asked sharply.

“There was a woman in the house who heard them, and she screamed. Then the _Cognes_ turned up and I ran.”

“Stupid girl!” Her mother took one step towards her – Éponine took the same step back. “Weren’t you there to watch out for them?”

“There were at least a dozen of them,” Éponine gave back, not without bite. Actually, she was not sure how many there had been, but given the noise and the fact that they had taken down the whole of Patron-Minette and her father that was at least the number she had estimated. “What should I have done? Taken them down single-handedly?” She glared at her mother and hoped that she would not see that she was in fact, trembling.

One would have thought that the years would have made her used to it. But the tiny, stubborn reflex of the girl that had been a cherished daughter once that had been lavished with attention by her mother would not fully die down.

She could never get used to that frown on her face, the ever present scowl of fury that had come with the turn of the tide.

A meal missed she could take. But her mother missed was a different story.

Yet, it would not do to mourn over spilled milk.

“You could have done something,” her mother hissed spitefully, but she did not come closer, and Éponine considered that a small grace.

“Right,” she gave back, crossing her arms before her chest. “So I’m doing something now.”

Her mother eyed her suspiciously.

“What d’ya mean?” she asked.

“I mean,” Éponine answered, and let some of her anger creep into her voice. It was a bit of attitude that probably would not go amiss if she wanted to keep the situation in check. “...That I’ll get them out one way or the other. I’ve been to _la Force_ this morning to check out where they are. Now I’ll get them out of there.”

“You,” her mother gave back distrustfully. And then, after a moment’s consideration, “you’ve been to _la Force_? How did ya manage that?”

Éponine could not help for a small smile to creep on her face.

“I know my way around.”

If she was successful, her father would tell her mother anyway. No need now bringing Enjolras into this complicated conversation. No need, in fact, to attract any more attention to him. The dealings of Patron-Minette were no idle game for the likes of him.

She decided to rather wait until the worst of the steam had blown off. The return of her husband would probably soothe her mother enough to drop the subject of how she came to get the help of the rebel leader.

Especially since she had no satisfactory explanation herself.

If the worst came to worst, she could always claim several methods that might have secured her his help.

Most of them were ridiculous, knowing Enjolras, but Éponine did not think that her parents knew this. So, it probably would be enough.

“Ah.” Her mother took half a step back and Éponine released a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. Her posture was slightly less hostile. “So what will ya do?”

“Plan’s still in the making.” That at least was honest. “But I know how to get in, now. And that’s half the job. Believe me. I’ll find a way.”

After another moment’s hesitation – her mother trying to find reassurance or fault in the strength of her gaze, Éponine looking for the remnants of the loving mother in the creature before her – Madame Thénardier shrugged once more, and turned away.

“Fair enough,” she commented and shuffled towards the window to look out. “There’s some stew left. Take if ye want. ‘Twas made for you all.”

Her first reflex was to deny. Her mother’s stews – while she knew how to cook – were usually fairly gruesome given the fact that she often had trouble assembling ingredients of even mediocre quality, and she still felt a remnant of the taste of the apple tartelette of this morning. It had been good – better than anything she had had in quite a while – and Éponine’s pleasures were so far and in-between that she preferred to take them fully.

But it probably would have seemed odd to her mother, if she denied food.

And for a moment, Éponine thought that there was a dejected note in her mother’s voice. Unbidden, an image came to mind of her mother as she cooked the meal with what she had been able to assemble, knowing that her husband and daughter would be hungry and tired. She would be hoping that they would bring home some booty to bring them during the next days.

Come to think of it, that stew was probably all they had had left; they had counted on an income from the Rue d’Olivel coup.

Sad – and angry at herself for being so – Éponine resigned herself to the concept of lunch.

It was not as bad as she had expected. It was still no comparison to the apple _tartelette_ of course. However, she took the meal wondering wryly that it may have well been in Montfermeil when she had last been given so much food in so little time.

Well, she would count her blessings.

“Where’s Azelma?” she asked when she had half finished her bowl.

“Out,” her mother responded forbiddingly.

“Out where?” Éponine inquired.

Slowly, her mother turned again, and when their gazes met, the spite was back. Any pity, any feeling that Éponine had harbored, comfortably slid back under a façade of stone.

“Earning money, ‘Ponine,” she replied nastily. “As you should’ve done.”

 

 

“Monsieur, a sou for a starving family.”

It was a reflex like walking or breathing. Her body reacted mechanically, almost without her knowledge, without her control. She had done it so often before; all of it came naturally to her, the words, the tone, the hunched posture, the hands reaching up to the passers-by in a pitiful gesture.

In the beginning, it had made her feel terrible. She had not dared to talk to strangers in the road, had felt herself mocked at and laughed at, had loathed the pity in her eyes.

She had feared to fall between the cracks, to be seized by an unforgiving soul who took her for the easy prey she was. She feared what begging might come to make of her, and what she would turn into.

But at the end of all this, it turned out that she feared the heavy hand of her father even more.

And so Azelma Thénardier – now Azelma Jondrette – had learned the rules of the trade. She had watched those around her and listened to the instructions of her father. She had found out that Éponine’s way of begging was not for her, that the coy and clever words would not come as they would for her sister.

But she had gotten used to cowering on cold floors, back bent, head bowed – so conveniently she never had to look any of them in the face – arms raised to whatever benefactor came along her way.

And she had learned the words of her trade and repeated them until their meaning was lost to her and they were just another movement to fulfill.

“Please, a sou for a starving family.”

Once she had started, her mind could drift. She was experienced enough so that her body went through the motions on its own while her mind was occupied elsewhere. She would – carefully, out of the corner of her eye – watch those around her, and dream. She would dream of another life, another world, of a paradise lost in the inn, dream of a place where she would be at peace.

It made begging bearable, somehow.

Barely so.

The entry of the Picpus cemetery was a good place to beg. The charity of people; this Azelma knew increased in the presence of holy ground, but the downside was that this was a fact known by many.

The places around the cemetery entry were highly squabbled over, and it was not often that she managed to actually sit this close to the entry, at a good spot that she had secured herself because she was early. And because, after all this time, she was a known face.

She would not stand a chance if any of the beggars chose to really drive her away, but the one protection that Azelma could still count on was the word of Patron-Minette, and so she was left mostly in peace.

Little did they know.

“Please, a sou for a starving family…”

Some coins clattered on the floor, and as one of them came to lie close to Azelma – a centime as she quickly remarked - she quickly snatched and pocketed it before carefully peering through brown strands to see who the benefactor had been.

It was the monk again. Given that he presumably belonged to the cloister, he was on errands often. Azelma had seen him come and go lots of times, and he was generous. He was old already, but had a friendly face and had spoken to her a few times.

He seemed in a hurry.

But Azelma was not one to nose about in other peoples’ business, and so she set about her trade again, her eyes trailing to the floor as she occupied herself with other things.

Her father and Éponine had not come home after this night’s excursion, and this made her worried. This could only mean that something had gone awry.

Either they were hiding somewhere, or things were worse.

“Please, a sou for a starving family.”

Azelma had no illusions about her worth to the family income. It had always been Éponine who was the brave one, the feisty one. She had a courage and daring that Azelma lacked. Of course, she had had her share of dealings with her father, but she knew that it was her sister who was cut out for this sort of duty, and her father knew it as well.

So she often stayed home – with her mother mostly – and helped her as much as she could. If not, she was left with the works that required neither daring nor skill – running errands and sitting here, begging for the crumbs off the tables of the rich.

She almost preferred it. As long as she was not home, things were not so tremendously bad.

Lost in her thoughts, the movement – the touch, surprised her completely and fully.

Something cold was being pressed into her hands – a coin. And there was a hand, carefully wrapping her fingers around the booty in a movement that shook her out of her dreams.

In a reflex she recoiled, her fingers closing firmly around the coin. Hastily, she brought some distance between her and her benefactor.

To be touched was never a promising thing. This was – and that was a golden rule that Éponine had hammered into her at every given opportunity – something that had to be avoided at all cost.

She stumbled back a bit and the connection was lost. Only then, beneath the tangled strands of her hair, she dared to take a quick look at whoever had approached her so.

It was a young man who was crouched before the place she had been sitting before. He was bourgeois clearly, in waistcoat and jacket, with dark, slightly unruly hair that fell to his neck in windswept waves.

He had kind eyes.

And currently wore a very stunned expression on his face.

For a moment, neither of them moved, and Azelma wondered if he could see that she was watching him. But after the first surprise had faded, he raised both his hands in a careful gesture of peace.

“I’m… sorry?”

He made it sound like a question and there was a stutter in his voice that she thought unusual for a bourgeois. Slowly, she turned back to face him fully, the movement chasing some of the errand strands from her face. She felt exposed, but she managed a small shake of her head.

“Why?” she asked the first thing that came to her mind, and she looked down at her hand to see what he had given her.

Five francs. A whole fortune.

Her eyes widened.

“Perhaps that is why.”

She stared up at him, and he had lowered his hands again, now resting his elbows on his knees to obtain a better position when crouching.

She noticed there were inkstains on his fingers.

Nonetheless, his words made no sense. Belatedly, she frowned, and he averted his gaze, looked down to his hands in a gesture that she almost took for embarrassment.

“I was wondering how you would look smiling,” he said. “Now I know.”

Azelma squinted her eyes. Something about the way he said this made her uneasy. When begging turned into money for a smile, this usually did not bode well.

“Five francs for a smile?” she asked suspiciously, and he ruefully shook his head.

“No.” He slowly raised his gaze from the pavement again to look at her slightly from below, not fully facing her. “Five francs to have you feel like smiling,” he said. “That is different.”

Azelma did not even pretend to understand, and he averted his eyes again, his cheeks speckled slightly red.

“I hoped it is enough for you to leave today and go home.”

Azelma stared again at the five francs in her finger. It was. If she came home with this piece, her mother would at least be civil, and there would be time for rest, shelter, and dreams.

But only for today.

“But I will have to come back tomorrow, still.”

She was not sure why she had said that. It sounded greedy. Her father probably would have been proud of her.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and the smile he gave her was slightly uncertain.

“I know,” he admitted, and to her surprise, there was some kind of pain in his voice. “But today you are smiling.”

“Why this kindness, Monsieur?”

He brought his hands together, rubbing them uncertainly, and as he opened his eyes again, Azelma was not sure what to make of the expression there. His gaze wandered over the assembly of beggars, over the cemetery walls, and then back to her. And for a moment, Azelma could have sworn that he was afraid.

“Because this is a city of glass, Mademoiselle,” he replied enigmatically, as if he were confiding in her. “And sometimes it does well to remind us that we all share the same blood, the same breath. It reminds me of why…” and then he broke up, actually biting his lip as if to keep in words he would not have spoken. Azelma had grown out of this habit years ago. “…of who you are and could be,” he finished finally. Azelma was certain that this was not what he had initially wanted to say. But his gaze had trailed away from her and he was getting up, giving her only a last quick glance.

“Thank you,” he said before turning to join another man standing a few steps back. Azelma watched him go open mouthed, aghast at the fact that someone had just given her five francs and then would – of all things - thank her for it.

 

 

After having fulfilled his errand – Madame Alevesse had requested for him to bring a piece of paper with an order for the upcoming weekend to a butcher’s shop – and getting away with not a sou, but instead a piece of sausage for his trouble, Gavroche set out to find his comrades.

It was much too late to be looking for them in the elephant – the sun told him that it must be around noon already, and they would be long up and about town. This of course, made it more difficult for Gavroche to locate them.

And yet, while all of them had turned princes of the streets in the course of their days together, Gavroche still was their king, and the quarter of Saint Michel was rightfully his. He was not fooled that easily.

Hitching a ride on the back of a carriage that was rolling northwards from Saint Michel, he started to check on the usual dwelling places of his friends.

At the _Boulangerie Vescis_ , he found not his comrades from the elephant, but Navet, who was munching cheerfully on a piece of dark bread.

That was why they liked the vicinity of the _Boulangerie_ and often lingered there – Madame Vescis had a soft spot for the children of the streets, and more often than not she handed out the stale bread she could not sell any more to them. They, in turn refrained from nicking her more high-quality pastries because they appreciated her kindness.

Better to steal from the hard-hearted; there were enough of them.

Gavroche hopped off the fiacre to greet his friend and exchange some gossip of the streets. Navet was in a gloomy mood despite the piece of bread. He had lately been sleeping in an abandoned apartment in a tenement in Saint Antoine, but now the room had been rented out again, and he was hence out of a lodging for the night.

Gavroche offered the elephant and Navet predictably refused. While Jean, Sylvain and Pucet who shared the dwelling with him were princes of the street, Navet was a king in his own right. He was equal and alike to Gavroche, and he would not give up this notion for the sake of a safe haven.

Gavroche understood this well and did not fault his friend for it. In any case, it was summer and the nights outside were warm enough. June was at the doorstep and Navet would find his own way.

“How are things, anyhow?” Gavroche asked and his comrade smirked joyfully.

“So caught up in your stuff that you didn’t have time to listen up?” he taunted, but Gavroche was not to be baited so easily.

“Got places to be, things to do, you know.”

“A lot of dead bodies, yesterday,” Navet said. “Word is there was nasty knifework done.”

“I’d know about that,” Gavroche answered and shrugged. “I heard quite a lot of it. Not who it was, though.”

Navet wolfed down the rest of his bread and sat down on a barrel that had not yet been moved inside the bakery.

“That’s what everyone else has heard,” he answered. “The big mystery all around. But peep your ears up and you’ll hear all sorts of things. Folk tell tales.”

“They always do that,” Gavroche answered. “Any good?”

Navet grinned.

“Lots of good. We’re young. We’re supposed to like fairytales.”

Gavroche grinned. It was amazing how sometimes grown-ups would behave like children.

“I see. Nothing new then.”

Navet shrugged.

“I’m not sure. Disease is still spreading everywhere. Folks are getting pretty scared.”

If he was honest, the disease was one of the things that scared Gavroche too. When it came to the normal dangers of the city – cutthroats, policemen, scoundrels, even the assassins that his friends currently dealt with, they did not scare him. Gavroche knew the city and its rules, and was not cowered by danger or malice. He was quick and agile, young and courageous, and thus well-equipped to survive the predator that was Paris these days. But the cholera – that was an enemy he neither could fight nor evade.

He saw its results every day, heard the whispers, felt the fear that was slowly gripping the quarters of the poor. It struck without warning and without explanation.

When it came to these high and mighty things, Gavroche knew he did not understand much. What he had learned the streets had taught him, and none of what his friends in the Musain were learning had anything to do with it.

Perhaps except for the fact that two weeks ago, Courfeyrac had actually shown him how to clean, load and fire a weapon. Finally. He had had to insist for about a month.

But that was beside the point.

Anyhow, he had listened to more than one discussion between Joly and Combeferre about the cholera, and while he did not understand half the words they were using, or half the arguments they were giving, one thing was as clear to him as a spring morning: they had no clue whatsoever.

Given the fact that they were two of the cleverest people he knew, and the only doctors he ever talked to, that had led to his firm belief that no one knew what to do about it.

Which was what scared him.

But he would not tell that to Navet.

“I guess they are,” he answered lightly. “Why wouldn’t they?” He clapped his hand on the other boy’s shoulder in a gesture he had seen Courfeyrac use on some of Les Amis. “But I gotta run. Gotta check on the boys. I was out yesterday.”

“Had things to do,” Navet said, understanding. “Take care, eh?”

Gavroche nodded, and in the manner of seasoned warriors, they parted, knowing they would meet again in time.

 

He found them on the Quai de la Greve, jumping stones into the murky water of the Seine.

They were merry as morning larks, laughing and taunting one another, skipping and hopping on the currently deserted street. Gavroche, even though he would have violently denied it, felt a deep surge of relief.

They were as they always were.

Which was good.

It was Jean who spied him first and ran towards him, alerting the others to his presence.

The greeting was raucous. In the manner of pups greeting the eldest of their pack, or of children meeting their older brother, puffs and punches were exchanged until all of them were out of breath, laughing and thoroughly reacquainted with each other.

Gavroche had found the three – independently of one another – in various depths of trouble, and he had tried to help them out of it best he could. As a result, they had stuck to him, finding shelter in his elephant and becoming a sort of family, twisted and weird as it was. They were his little birds also, hustling through the city with eyes and ears open, and ever since there were four of them, there was so much more that Gavroche knew, and so much more that he could do.

Sylvain and Jean were both slightly younger than him; much less experienced when it came to the more sordid corners of Paris, while Pucet was little more than a baby, brave and funny. He was loved and cared for by them all, but still very much too small to fend for his own.

“How’s the city?” Gavroche asked when they were finally sitting together, having taken up the previous occupation of filling the Seine with pebbles.

There was nothing new to be known from the boys apart from the fact, that they had obviously survived the night on their own unscathed. Jean, being the oldest, was actually boasting of having taken care of the younger ones ‘just as you would have done’ (which basically meant that he asked if they had eaten and what news there was to be had), but what was odd about the setup was not that he said this, but that Sylvain did not contradict him.

Of the three, Sylvain had always been the quietest one, being more thoughtful than courageous. Jean was rash, while Pucet, who was still little, still just a child, was still trying to find out how to live on the streets of Paris.

In spite of his quietness, there was a constant squabble between Jean and Sylvain for dominion in being second to Gavroche in their small group, and it was fairly unusual that the latter let this opportunity pass without so much as a blink.

Gavroche had learned to pay attention to the oddities of life and was thus instantly alarmed.

But it was not until two hours later, when he had sent Jean and Pucet away to the home of General Lamarque to find out if there was any news to be had (so that he could perhaps deliver this information to his friends tonight) that the opportunity presented itself to ask.

“Don’t know what you mean,” Sylvain said in the manner of a boy who knew exactly what the question given to him meant. Of course, Gavroche did not believe it.

“Come on,” he therefore said. “Don’t tell me nonsense. What’s up? You’re in trouble?”

“I can look out for myself!” Sylvain contradicted, showing a flare of spirit that spoke worlds of how Jean had recently often gotten the upper hand during their squabbles.

“No one said nothing against that,” Gavroche soothed, throwing another pebble into the river. “Still. What’s up? Come on. We’re brothers; I won’t tell Jean.”

Sylvain stayed silent for a long moment before he threw another pebble into the Seine ferociously.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You promise you’re not gonna be angry?”

Gavroche rolled his eyes.

“Sure.”

“I may have done summat stupid. Especially with you being friends with the students and all.”

That got Gavroche’s attention immediately.

“Ever since that thing in Rue Saint Honoré…” by this he was referring to a particular incident. Gavroche had only narrowly bailed him out from a rally that was on the verge of taking in homeless children. It had cost him nearly all his savings to deflect the attention of the policemen – everyone knew about orphanages, and how they were horrible, “well, ever since then I’ve been looking for a way to repay you. Then turns up this guy. Says he has a thing to do for me.”

That in itself was nothing unusual. All of them ran errands for small money. It was less dangerous than thieving.

“So I did. Told me to follow a few people. Tell him what they do. That sort of thing.”

He fiddled with a hole in his trousers around the knee, and Gavroche had a dawning suspicion on where his young comrade was going. The errand in itself was not so unusual either – he had done that sort of thing himself numerous times, even for his friends from the Café Musain. But the expression on Sylvain’s face told the whole story in just a few words.

“One of them turned up dead yesterday, right?” he concluded, and Sylvain nodded dejectedly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Marcel Devereux. He’s dead.”

“I know,” Gavroche answered, thinking it was ironic that this was the very sentence that had brought him into this whole, sordid story. “Yeah. I know.”


	20. Dew on rustling leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Éponine makes a decision.

**Chapter 19: Dew on rustling leaves**   
_“We are all slaves to our histories. If there is to be a .. bright future, we must learn to break those chains.”_

In the end, he would not be swayed. As much as Cosette pleaded and asked, Jean Valjean was adamant about leaving the house he no longer considered a safe haven for his daughter. There were no words she could speak, no pleas she could utter that would change his mind.  
It had not been all too surprising to her. Her father was a strong man, powerful in his emotions and convictions. He was as contradictory as sea and sky, calm, loving, tender, secretive, brooding and utterly unswayable once his mind had formed. Cosette knew that he listened to her; that sometimes, her words were able to sway that unwavering mind of his if she uttered them carefully and lovingly and then left him to think on it for a while. But even this technique had failed to show effect this time.  
It was all the better that she had taken any precaution she could.  
After having spoken to him, she had returned to her room. Not to sleep as her father had commanded her to, but to pin down a note to Marius, a small letter only that she agonized over for a long time. For what could she tell him? What could she say?  
In the end, she settled for simple words. Simple, but true and clear, and gave her new whereabouts to him along with her love.  
She slipped out of the house quietly before Touissant got up, treading through the early morning garden on bare feet as the dew kissed her toes in the pale light. The birds sang around her and covered the sound of steps she was making.  
She placed the letter into the intrinsic iron weavings of the fence at the side of the gate, beneath a few curious branches of ivy. It was hidden well enough not to be spotted directly, but still possible to be made out if searched for.  
It was all she could do.  
And so they left their lodgings in Rue Plumet and turned towards a different place, one that Cosette had heard her father talk about a few times, but had never visited. Anxiously, she watched the busy streets of Paris rush by in the afternoon light, the activity of all those outside the fiacre nothing but a blur before her eyes.  
Her father was sitting at her side, nervously fiddling with his cane as he was lost in thoughts of his own.  
It felt familiar of sorts.  
Cosette frowned.  
The thought there was unbidden, coming out of nowhere as these thoughts would. But now that it was there, she could feel it like a thorn, burying itself into her flesh and meaning to stay.  
She blinked as the scenery before her shifted and changed; streets turned into squares and streets again, houses and shops passed by. Cosette tried to determine why she somehow felt that she had done this before, that this was not the first time she was leaving a home in a hurry.  
Come up here, Cosette, quickly…  
A flash of an image – a wall, a rope in the deep of the night. The figure of her father standing on the wall, bowing down to her as he urged her to grasp the rope and follow him, his arm reaching down to her as her heart pounded violently.  
The thought was gone like water running through her fingers. The flash of intuition that had brought it about was gone, and Cosette was again staring at sunlit Paris streets. A vague feeling of dread, of darkness remained though.  
What happened?  
She carefully placed her hand against the upholstery of the carriage, as if the reality of plush and cloth would bring her thoughts back to the here and now. After a few moments, her heartbeat slowed again and she was left to breathe more freely.  
The wall must have been Picpus, she realized after a few moments’ thought, harmonizing the vague memory with clearer remembrances of her own. It was the convent where she had spent her youth while her father had tended to the grounds and gardens with his brother…  
Again, Cosette hesitated, frowning.  
Not his brother. Not her uncle. She had never questioned it, had accepted it as reality. It was an oddity that only now that she twisted and turned it between her thoughts and suddenly seemed disquieting.  
Monsieur Fauchelevent had been one of the guardians of her early years. He had been her uncle to the world, and in some manner, to her also. Deep down however, she had always known this to be untrue, had always known that this was only a part of the story for the world to see.  
You will say nothing of it. Never ever, Cosette, do you understand? Don’t breathe a word, don’t breathe a sound. You are not to tell, remember?  
She flinched at the memory of another night, just as terrible, just as implacable. Her father’s eyes mercilessly placed upon her as he had almost frightened her in his intensity. He had not yelled at her, but whispered; screamed whispering, if there was even such a thing. She remembered the terror, not at him, but at the situation itself, and at what she had seen in his eyes. Knowing him now, as she had not known him then, she realized that he had almost been scared out of his wits.  
Slowly, she turned her head to watch her father. There were remnants of that same expression in his eyes now. It was well hidden and deep, but present to the careful observing eyes of a daughter.  
He turned abruptly as he noticed her watching him and the expression was gone in a second, replaced by a scowl that nonetheless attempted friendliness.  
“Cosette?”  
For a moment, she did not know what to say. Should she ask him about what she thought she had remembered? But then again, she was not even sure if it was a memory, or a dream, or even a memory of a dream. And if she asked him, would he answer truthfully?  
Her father was a man shrouded in secrets, and he kept them very well. There must have been reasons for it; if the flashes of intuition that she had received really were any representation of what truly happened, she could believe that the reasons were grave. But still, recently she had felt that she should be privy to some more information about who and what they actually were.  
Maybe it was Marius that had brought this about. Looking at his dear face – even simply remembering it – had been like a window into another world. A world she longed to see and experience, a world where there was laughter to be had and dreams to be shared. Without even saying a word, he had opened up a door that Cosette had not even known to exist. He had said little of it when he visited her, when all of their words were dedicated to this strange, new bond. But Cosette had seen him in the Jardin du Luxembourg and about town, had watched his dealings with his friends as they handed out leaflets as well as dreams.  
She had never considered that things might really be possible to change. Of course, like every other child, she had not been able to fully escape the dealings of two years before. But of course her father had been hiding during what they now called the three glorious days, and as far as she was concerned, not much had changed with that changing of the tide.  
The rich were still the rich. The poor were still the poor.  
And Cosette and her father lived in their own, private idyll taking out of time.  
Marius had burst into this world, bringing with him all that they had tried to shun out. No wonder her father was not happy about it.  
Cosette forced a smile onto her lips and averted her eyes.  
“It’s nothing, Papa,” she finally said, after too long a break which made him frown.  
“Cosette, my dear,” he began, and took to placing one hand under her chin to lift her head, so that he might look into her eyes and discern her mood. “I am sorry for dragging you out like this. I hope you know that.” She nodded meekly, and tried to bite back tears that came with the look of concern on his face. “Of course I do, Papa…” she managed to say. She wondered if this was a moment to confide in him, to try and finally understand what it was that he was so desperately hiding.  
But there were remnants of darkness in his eyes that were not dispelled so easily.  
Maybe next time…  
He seemed satisfied with her answer and released her chin, turning his gaze back to the hustle outside his window.  
Cosette, doing the same, could not help wishing that Marius would find her letter soon.

 

Finally, she decided to go.  
Throughout the afternoon, Éponine had roamed the city of Paris, on the lookout for various items that might come in handy when her plans for her father and the rest of his gang would see realization. She had taken what little money she kept for emergencies, stored behind a loose brick in the wall of the shabby tanner’s shop a few houses down from the Gourbeau tenement, but she had not spent any of it yet.  
Having seen the inside of La Force by now, as well as the cell that her accomplices had been placed in, she had, together with Gavroche, devised a plan that should allow them to help them to safety. Given a bit of luck and proper planning, it would hopefully see success.  
The cell itself had been equipped with a window that might be just large enough to bring them through, one by one, given the possibility that they were able to remove the bars. From there on, one might proceed to the roof of the prison, and then, further on around the courtyards towards the New Building of the prison. Fortunately, it had had its roof refurnished and was therefore – by way of ladders and passages – not as shunned off the outside world as usual.  
The fine details of the plan were still to be fleshed out, but Éponine had understood clearly that it was imperative to bring at least two items into the prison the next time she went there to visit: a rope and a rasp.  
Smuggling that into the prison of course would prove a difficulty in itself, and so the afternoon had been spent by planning, scouting and investigating. All without any real purchase yet to be done.  
It was no matter. She could spare another day – a coup like this was to be well planned.  
Having run about town all afternoon had conveniently put off the decision of whether she would go to the Café Musain in the evening or not. In spite of this, the early evening found her sitting a few streets away on a barrel with still no clear path on what she was going to do.  
She watched the sun, as it disappeared behind the tenements around her, a first sunset happening before the real one did. It made her feel uneasy, as if she was counting the minutes until it was too late.  
And that thought was what made her pause.  
If Éponine was being honest with herself, she wanted to go. Of course, she had seen the assemblies that they were holding; the public ones, at least, as well as those outside of their familiar haunts: Markets, squares, street corners…  
She had initially been there for the sake of Marius. But somehow, gradually, this had slightly shifted during the last day without her truly noticing. She had helped them and received help in return. She had, of all things, been talked and listened to, and had seen her opinions floating around in the words of the students who, by standing and education, should have better things to do than listen to the wonderings of a gamine.  
Yet, it had been an unusual experience, one that deep down, she would like to repeat.  
Also, she had not forgotten the fervor with which Enjolras spoke of what he was doing. There was an earnestness to him that reminded her of a priest, an absolute faith and conviction that was utterly strange, but a wonder to behold. Éponine was skeptical at the sense and outcome of what Marius and his friends were planning. However, their earnest dreams were not fully dispelled by her pessimism. A part of her was angry for letting herself be fooled again by yet another set of pretty words, but another part had felt comfortable, for a few moments’ time, and that was a rare gift.  
All things considered, she truly wanted to follow the invitation uttered, even if it was only to see what would happen.  
And Éponine had gone very long without doing what she wanted to. Maybe it was time to change that as well.

When she arrived at the Café, an hour before sundown maybe, the main room was already relatively full despite the hour.  
The room was candlelit; the sun had vanished behind the towering tenements and the warm golden glow mingled with the remaining daylight, giving an impression of a world in-between. And a world in-between it was, of sorts, the café humming with anticipation of the things to come.  
Éponine took a look around at the young faces around her. Some of them were deep in discussion, others obviously just biding their time, a drink in front of them, exchanging few words as they watched the proceedings around them.  
Apparently, the friends of Marius had been at least partly successful in their plan of contacting their friends about the city.  
Éponine wondered if she should continue to the back room that was accessible through a door on the right side of the café. She had been forbidden to go there up to now, and had usually sent Louison in when she was looking for Marius, but that was supposed to have changed with the invitation that Enjolras had uttered yesterday. She had half a mind to try it, just to see if he had been true to his word.  
However, as she turned to the right, she found him sitting in the main room of the café instead, alone at a smaller table that was pushed to the right wall of the café where he had a good overview on who would enter the place. The table in front of him was littered with papers – notes, two books and an edition of le Globe of a few days back – but he was not looking at it. Keen eyes surveyed the room, his cool, blue gaze sweeping over those present until it came to rest on her surprisingly, and he cocked his head slightly in what might have been a greeting.  
“Éponine?”  
It did not sound unkind, a bit offhanded perhaps, but his eyes stopped their restless wandering over those assembled for a moment.  
She nodded in greeting.  
“Monsieur.”  
That elicited a small frown from him, and he pulled out one of the chairs of the table he was sitting by with an inviting gesture that surprised her profoundly.  
“Will you sit with me for a moment, since we’re both here early?” he offered calmly, his eyes going back to scanning the room, the frown still present on his face. There was no real reason to deny the request – the room was full of unfamiliar people otherwise, and sitting with someone she knew was definitely better than haunting the shadows alone. Thus she complied, taking a seat at his side.  
“It does not seem just, does it?” he asked without turning towards her. His posture was relaxed, but his fingers, toying absentmindedly with a corner of one of the papers lying in front of him, betrayed noticeable anxiousness. Éponine frowned.  
“What do you mean?”  
“The address,” he gave back neutrally, but still she was not sure she understood what he was implying.  
“Monsieur?” she therefore reiterated. She did not want to repeat her question from before, but she hoped that this choice of word would confirm or contradict her suspicion of what he was implying.  
“And again she does it.” He sounded slightly annoyed, turning his head towards her now, but his face was unreadable in the flickering candlelight.  
He seemed warmer here, in this golden glow. His eyes seemed less cold as he regarded her now, and the blond hair was slightly darker, softer in its color, the lines in his face less clear and severe.  
Candlelight was a gentle thing.  
“Mademoiselle,” he continued, putting an emphasis on this address. “I thought I had made myself clear enough before, but apparently this is not so. Events – and your own courage – have swept you into our middle, have they not? And by your own inclination you have come back to this circle.” He raised a brow. “To my slight, yet pleased surprise I might add, but that is beside the point.”  
Yet, it gave Éponine pause. That was certainly an unexpected statement coming from him. The offhanded nature of the remark did not diminish its worth. Éponine was certainly, definitely not used to being welcome anywhere, but hearing it reiterated again and again made her start to believe she might be welcome here in the café, in this circle. And for more than just her imminent usefulness. It was a heady thought.  
Yet, Enjolras continued, unfazed and unaware.  
“This would indicate that you at the very least consider doing what I offered you a few hours ago. Join forces with us. Take your chance to shine.”  
There was a question in his eyes, if not in his words, and Éponine was slightly at loss what to say. Of course this had been what was wavering through the room, and of course this was the decision pending.  
But was she, for the sake of companionship and an elusive feeling of belonging, for the sake of a purpose even that she could barely name, willing to give up her cover and step at the students’ side? Was she really willing to – as she had said to Marius some time ago – plot to overthrow the state? Would she even want it?  
Snippets of her conversation with Gavroche came back to her; her callous words about the chances of success and the merit of the revolution the students were obviously planning. But this had been Gavroche. Her brother, who brought out both the best and the worst in her, who had run where she had stayed, who was free when she was in fetters, both her own and that of other’s making. Her brother, who hoped when she fell too hard.  
She could never think clearly when discussing with Gavroche.  
Yet it was a valid question to ask if she was thinking clearly when conversing with Enjolras.  
How would it be to allow herself to dream, let alone believe?  
She hesitated, and Enjolras’ brow rose slightly at her silence. It was still questioning, not yet a reprimand, and Éponine realized that an answer was in order.  
“…Maybe?” she answered, and he let out a snort, turning away his weapon of a gaze. Éponine felt that this indeed was a reprimand.  
“There is no such thing as ‘maybe’ in this venture, Mademoiselle,” he informed her coolly, and the tone in his voice had dropped from spring to winter. Still, Éponine did not cower in the face of adversary.  
“Do you really think the people will rise at your call?”  
Another snort, and a shake of his head.  
“Are you basing your answer on the chances of success?” he asked, and some acid crept into his voice. He could be terrible, Éponine realized with almost a pang of fear, and she had come close enough to be able to make an enemy out of Marius’ friend. But then again, she had no inclination of being pushed about by a bourgeois boy, especially not one who was constantly sprouting words of égalité.  
“That’s beside the point,” she therefore answered, turning her head towards him and gazing at his profile. She took in the sharp lines of his face, the mouth pressed into a thin line. He considered her answer for a moment.  
“Point taken,” he then replied, only slightly less cold. He shifted slightly in his seat, taking a few moments before responding to her initial question.  
“So yes, Mademoiselle, I do think they will rise.”  
“Why?”  
He considered this for a moment, but in profile, she could see his features relaxing slightly as he formulated an answer, as if lapsing back into familiar ground.  
“The simple answer would be that I have been told so by many, and I have seen it come to pass. This city has been boiling with uneasiness and anger for a long time, Mademoiselle. Words and truths can light that spark and have done so on numerous occasions in the past. Little fires – granted, but the day will come, when they unite. But that I suppose, will not satisfy you.” He turned to watch her and she gave him a slight shake of her head in confirmation. “Therefore, the more complex one. It is my firm belief that the oppression keeping this land in a death grip cannot be endured forever. I do believe that the upraising two years ago was a dream unfulfilled, a revolution stolen from those that have carried it from the start. It is a large part of the bourgeoisie that has taken the fruits of the work that others have done. Nothing has changed when it comes to the unrest of the abased. If anything, the reign of Louis Phillipe has brought all the deficiencies of this country’s status in sharper relief. Therefore, it cannot last.”  
Éponine shook her head, and was rewarded with a raise of his brow. He seemed to have calmed down, the anger slightly quenched.  
“Those are beautiful words, Monsieur,” she said. “But there are those who have no time for words. To them, you might still be one of those that…” she considered her words for a moment, but then decided that honesty had started this strange conversation, and honesty should carry it on. “… well...that stole the last revolution from them.”  
Enjolras shook his head.  
“That is ridiculous,” he said, “I was and am as furious about this coup two years ago as anyone.”  
Éponine nodded.  
“That may be. For you and for Monsieur Marius, but you don’t really look the part, you know? You’re bourgeois. To the bone, actually. Why should they believe that this time will be different?”  
“Previous failure should not be a reason for not taking the right path, Mademoiselle.”  
Éponine shrugged.  
“Well, that’s possible. But…” She almost faltered under the growing intensity of his gaze. He was a force to be reckoned with, and Éponine did not have the fine gift of weaving beautiful words as he had. And so she told him. “… Look Monsieur, I am not a student as you are, and I know nothing about all those beautiful things you talk about. But I know about Saint Michel. A rabble is one thing. It’s fun, it’s only slightly dangerous. You run with the crowd, and when the Cognes show up, you duck for cover. Strength in numbers, yes, but it’s all a game. Nothing earnest. Barricades, a true fight, that’s different. The earnest thing, we’ve had twice. People have tried to change things for the better twice, and twice nothing has changed from where we’re sitting. People have died that could still be living; children have lost their fathers because they believed in something that never happened. Everyone’s trying to survive somehow. Perhaps people are tired. Rabbles are easy. Revolutions I wouldn’t know.”  
Enjolras considered this for a moment. Éponine would have thought that her words would stir his anger again, but they did not. Instead, he squinted, his blue eyes almost curious.  
“Who are we talking about?” he asked.  
“Not me,” Éponine gave back. “I was just thinking…”  
He relieved her of his gaze again, looking at the growing crowd of people in the front room of the Café. The expression on his face was curious, the clear lines softened again. She would have almost thought there was a hint of a smile.  
“For not being interested, you have given the matter an impressive amount of thought.”  
“I never said I was not interested,” Éponine contradicted, almost angrily. Now there was a smile; minuscule, but undeniable.  
“Ah,” was all he said. And even though she was not sure why, Éponine felt caught, and this predictably roused her anger.  
“What is ‘ah’ supposed to mean?” she snapped.  
“Mademoiselle,” he answered. “What you are talking about is doubt of the means. Doubt of the feasibility. But that is not what I asked when we set out on this conversation. The only question you should ask yourself is if you want to be able to reach a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ from ‘maybe’. Everything else is just an obstacle to overcome. The means is relative. The goal is absolute.”  
Éponine considered this for a moment.  
“That easy, huh?” It was meant to sound sarcastic, but finally it came out more like a true question.  
He turned back to look at her, and this time he was serious, and this time, there nothing more to be said. The gaze that looked for hers held a strange quality, beseeching, and almost warm.  
“Yes, Mademoiselle. It’s that easy.”  
She held his gaze and had the feeling of standing at an edge with darkness looming below, caught between standing, waiting in that final and terrifying moment before a jump. He had dispelled none of her doubts. In fact, he had in some manner acknowledged it.  
Could she, after all this time, allow herself to dream?  
He stretched out his right hand, an offering given, which in turn increased the pressure on her and her thoughts. But maybe, just maybe he was right. He had listened to her, and if anything she believed him; that he took the people for what they did, not what they were. This conversation was proof enough of that. And would it really be so bad? She had moved in and close to their circles for such a long time. How would it be to do something because it was right, and not because it was for Marius, or her father?  
Slowly, she returned his gesture, conscious of the movement every step on the way. It might be that she was sealing her doom, but had she not thought herself doomed anyhow? What was there to lose? And what was there to gain?  
His hand clasped her arm, strong and firm, the warmth of his fingers effortlessly seeping through the thin blouse she was wearing. Her fingers on his coat sunk into the thick, rich fabric, feeling the arm underneath, its warmth almost completely shielded by the cloth.  
He did not smile. But something in his eyes flickered for a moment, in satisfaction, maybe, or even relief.  
“I am glad to hear it, Éponine,” he fell back to her previous address effortlessly and released her arm in a gentle, calm movement, almost languid and relaxed.  
“No more Mademoiselle?” she could not help teasing, since he put such an emphasis on it.  
“Well, that was the point of the whole conversation, was it not?” He leaned back and Éponine could see some of the tension leaving his body. “I would not think it very just for you to stick to honorary addresses while you do not accept them yourself.”  
Éponine frowned at his roundabout way of speech.  
“You have made yourself one of us,” he explained, “By deed first, and now by word as well. I would suggest you address me as the rest of them do.”  
That was clearer, but no less frightening. But Éponine had never been one to linger on past deeds. She had made a decision and would see where it led her.  
“Enjolras,” she tried out his name on her tongue. She had heard it said so often, it came easy to her. He nodded seriously.  
“Thank you, Éponine.”  
For a moment, silence settled between them comfortably, and both of them turned towards the ever growing amount of people that crowded in the Café.  
“It seems,” Éponine remarked at length, “that you were fairly successful in rallying the troops.”  
Enjolras nodded.  
“Not all of them bourgeois, mind you,” he gave back with some attitude, but it did not carry much of a sting. “Students, workers, the whole variety of those that have dedicated themselves to the cause.” There was grim satisfaction in his voice as his eyes roamed over those assembled. “We will see how many there are in the end. But after what has happened, I am glad for everyone who comes here today.” He took to looking to the books, papers and notes that littered the table before him. “I have not forgotten what you said, Éponine. And it may be that you have raised a valid point that is worth considering. We have discussed it between us, but it may be useful to reiterate. We will have to see what we will do about it in time. I would like to delve into this again with you, Combeferre and possibly Feuilly, when the brawl has lessened. Seeing as you brought the point up, I would value your opinion on it.”  
Éponine shrugged.  
“I am not sure that there is much else I can say,” she said.  
“You have said a lot,” Enjolras retorted, “and some of it from a different angle than I was used to.” Again, there was almost a smile on his face as he turned towards her again. “Let me tell you something about this group here that you may or may not be fully aware of. Though, I will probably have to draw on words of those that can formulate these things better than I can in order to express it.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “The strength of the spirit that we carry lies in two roots. One of them is conviction – there can be no revolution, no great deed indeed without conviction underlying it, and a good deed for the wrong reason will forever be tainted. The other however, Éponine, as some of my friends never cease to point out, is diversity. Look around at those assembled, and you will find that strength is more than the sum of our parts, which are indeed as different as could be. Every voice carries a different note to it. Different may be at times, annoying at best, infuriating at the worst, but a fool I would be, would I not draw on this resource as well, as it lies so readily before me.” The smile turned slightly rueful. “Or so Courfeyrac tells me,” he added with a spark of humor. “Therefore,” and now he turned serious again, “I would have you speak your mind, Éponine, as we all do.”  
She almost smiled at that.  
“You may come to regret it,” she informed him dryly.  
“I would not think so.” In contradiction to her humor, he was deadly serious. “It seems I will have to repeat myself when it comes to you. An opinion is an opinion and thus worth to be considered. This is reality here.” He gave a quick gesture that seemed to encompass the whole room. “It is one of our hopes that…”  
“Éponine!”  
She raised her head at the familiar voice, and indeed, it was Marius pushing his way through the crowds. His eyes were sparking at the sight of her as he approached the table she shared with Enjolras.  
“You came!” He had always had that easy friendliness that seemed to come to him without effort, extended to everyone that he even held the slightest inclination for. It was addictive.  
“I came,” she answered, and Marius flicked a quick gaze to Enjolras, who sat next to her unfazed, with the slightest of frowns on his face.  
“And you’ve been monopolizing her.” Marius almost sounded accusing, but there was humor in his statement as he shook his head. “I haven’t even seen her up until now.”  
And it was only then that Éponine realized. She had stepped into the Musain, as she had often done so previously, but this had been the first time that she had not immediately looked for him, that her gaze had not found his familiar figure in the crowd with infallible accuracy.  
The revelation almost took her breath away, had it not been for the relief that came with it.  
Looking into his dear, dear face, she attempted at a shrug.  
“Neither did I see you,” she answered, and as he gave back a taunt on her being blind and unfocused, she repeated it to herself, just because she could and just because it was true.  
I didn’t see you, Marius.


	21. A view from the gallery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an assembly is formed and we try to move from reaction to action

**Chapter 20: A view from the gallery**  
 _“On my world, we have learned that an inauguration is simply a signal to assassins that a new target has been set up on the firing range.”_

An hour later, Enjolras was honestly considering that he should have chosen another venture for this particular assembly of his. He had never seen the café this full, so packed with people that Madeleine and Louison had actually stopped passing through the crowds with the drinks. Instead, orders were shouted or passed from mouth to ear until they reached the bar where the two of them were standing with Lucien, the owner of the café. The drinks and the money to pay for it took the same paths. On the whole, this system seemed to be working, but Enjolras made a mental note nevertheless to ask them about it after the event had been concluded.  
It would not do for them to lose their income due to the fact that he had made their café the home of a revolutionary group. Especially if this group had, by way of the circumstances, as they had been since yesterday, found themselves in the center of events and in the position to coordinate as many of their brothers as they could get hold of.  
Enjolras and Combeferre had secured themselves the table at the right hand side of the café, where Enjolras had been sitting since they had come back from Saint Antoine. They were, of sorts, guarding the entrance to the back room of the café, which they intended to use for those activities that would need a little more space than the main room could afford.  
Currently, the sanctum was occupied by Feuilly, who had, on their way back from Saint Antoine, taken his drawing materials with him. Enjolras had sent Éponine and Marius to him to give an as accurate a description as she could on the assassin that had targeted them in the hope that Feuilly would be able to produce a recognizable picture of him.  
That, at least, Éponine had agreed to willingly.  
He was still not sure what had prompted her to finally agree to his offer of taking sides with him and his friends, and neither could he fully explain why he had insisted thus. Surely, Éponine had proven to be a valuable asset during the last hours. Enjolras could not deny that his little prison escapade would have ended quite differently if she had not been there to break the ice between him and her associates. A remnant of worry remained that there might be a price attached to this particular venture. A price for her, for him or even both of them, but he deflected this issue to be solved later, as it was probably currently stalled, due to the fact that most of the protagonists were enjoying government hospitality.  
He had problems in abundance already, no need to artificially add more.  
The words that Éponine had thrown at him on the other hand were to some extent grating. Of course, he had considered the fact that the last bloody upraising was not very long ago. That history, for all the achievements revolutions had brought, did not inspire too much confidence into the success of these ventures for those that were at the bottom of society. However, past experiences did point in a slightly different direction, nevertheless. It had, after all, not been the first time that they had tried to inspire a rabble – be it in response to an unfavorable charter, a rumor spreading through the city used to their advantage or an anger of even more dubious sources.  
Paris had been a powder keg for years, and sparks could be fired at even slight incidences. They had never lacked for support, or for a response to their calls.  
However, maybe Éponine was right that there was a difference between a rabble and a revolution.  
This was to be considered carefully, given the appropriate time.  
Which was not now.  
Now was the time to bring together their brothers. It had not taken long to form the plan. The first set of ideas had been laid out with Combeferre in his apartment the night before. Then followed a discussion with Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Jehan in the morning, in which he was missing his guide dearly – he felt neither the inclination nor the capability of keeping Bahorel’s and Courfeyrac’s more raucous proposals in check, but luckily Jehan had, at times, overcome his timidity and intervened, as well. Now came, between Éponine leaving and now, a final, quick discussion with Combeferre that took only a few words. All it needed was a very little of harmonization before the path was clear before their eyes.  
Such were the comforts of friendship.  
He surveyed the room. The Saint Antoine cell had arrived in full numbers, and many had been filing in from the Cougourde of Aix. Some of them had come together with Lamarin and Combeferre, who had been the first of the other emissaries to return to their home base in the Musain. Joly and Bossuet had been not far behind, and currently were chatting away merrily with Lamarin and a few of his associates. Amidst a group of students that had come in from the Polytechnique, Enjolras recognized Ramon Deleric, a friend of Combeferre’s who had assembled a group of friends to come to the assembly that Marius and Enjolras had told them about in the morning at university. Law, medicine and even a few theology students had turned up in looser bands, because the most dedicated of them had found their way in one of the revolutionary cells long ago.  
There was no news yet from the Barrière – which was a worrying thing in itself – but Bahorel and Jehan had just entered the café, pushing through the crowds towards the lookout post of Enjolras and Combeferre. They were alone.  
“How did it go?” Enjolras asked by way of greeting, and Bahorel, taking off his hat, shrugged with a slightly unsatisfied expression.  
“Not too well, I’m afraid,” he said. “I haven’t been able to locate any of them except for Frater Antoine in the end. He promised to try and find some of them on his own.”  
“There was no one at Les trois canards?” Combeferre asked.  
“Actually, the first time we were there, it was still closed. But we passed another time right before coming here, and then there was no one in. The patrons swore they had not seen any of the usual crowd in three days.”  
Combeferre shook his head, a worrying frown on his face.  
“There is no helping it now,” Enjolras concluded. We will see if the good Frère has been able to find out more. Saint Antoine is here, at least, and some of the Cougourde.”  
“So Jacques’ lost lambs turned up even without the shepherd,” Bahorel commented grinning and earning himself a reprimanding gaze from Combeferre. Enjolras, on the other hand was not quite sure how to respond to this. Indeed, Jacques had a sense of uniqueness that had not always been beneficial for the Cougourde. However, he did not feel inclined to comment thus on a fellow revolutionary, especially on one whose support he was nonetheless counting.  
The dandy on the other hand, did not seem to expect an answer. He clapped Combeferre’s shoulder instead in a good-natured gesture that might or might not have meant that he had been joking. “Come, Jehan,” he said, turning back to his comrade, who had remained a few steps back, surveying the assembled crowds with an absentminded frown. “Let’s see what the back room is up to, before the brawl starts in earnest.” He rubbed his hands in unabashed excitement, while the young poet indeed flinched when he was thus spoken to; he had been deeply lost in thoughts of his own before.  
Bahorel’s grin widened.  
“Still thinking about that beggar girl?” he asked, and Jehan’s cheeks actually turned a considerable red, as the comment obviously struck home. Enjolras marveled at the fact that his friend had gone from concern to serious discussion to sarcasm then to teasing in a manner of five sentences.  
“Jehan had a moment of generosity there, as we left Picpus,” Bahorel explained for the benefit of the others and grinned broadly. “Out of some twenty beggars he picks the young girl. Pure coincidence, of course.”  
“Generosity is never wrong, is it?” Combeferre chastised gently, and Enjolras suspected that he was trying to take away the attention from Prouvaire, who obviously did not feel comfortable about the way the discussion was going. “But you may as well go and see how far Feuilly has come with his drawings. The sun is not yet down, but it cannot be long before we start.”  
Bahorel obviously knew to take a hint and tipped his head, nodding. He vanished into the direction of the back room, an obviously relieved Jehan in tow.  
“Ah,” Combeferre noted as Enjolras turned his attention back to the room, and following his gaze and the quick nod of his head, Enjolras could see what he was aiming at. “Look at this. The situation does not seem quite as hopeless as it seemed.”  
Frater Antoine had entered the Café, a group of eight men of various ages in tow. He struck an odd figure in dissonance to the rest of the assembly in his simple white robe, but if he was aware of this, he did not show it. In fact he seemed as much an intrinsic part of those arriving with him as Enjolras could imagine.  
“What do you think?” Enjolras asked. He was not very familiar with the group in Picpus.  
Combeferre skimmed the arrivals.  
“I see neither Vinceaux nor Namelle,” he began, making a face. “This is bad news. Griollet is there, though. Small comfort at least. And there are only eight of them. Picpus in full numbers is closer to five-and-twenty.”  
“So we have to expect a blood toll that we have not taken into account yet,” concluded Enjolras, because there was little else to be said for this. Stating the facts accounted for clarity, and clarity was what they were aiming at.  
“I fear so,” Combeferre concurred.  
“What is it you fear?”  
Without making himself noted, Marius Pontmercy had joined the two on their lookout post, coming back from his occupation in the back room, looking slightly flustered but otherwise quite the same as always.  
“That there may be some dead comrades that we do not know of yet,” Enjolras explained, turning his gaze back to the steadily growing assembly. “How did it go with the drawing of the assassin?”  
Marius let out a small sigh of exasperation that was mostly mocking.  
“I bow to the superior memory of Éponine, actually. I have had quite enough of being proven wrong in my remembrances of the man for more times than I can stomach, and hence I figured Feuilly will be fine on his own with her.”  
Enjolras could not help the small smile creep upon his face. An Éponine that was chastising Marius for not remembering correctly was a world away from the broken look she had given his retreating back as he ran to Cosette, right after the market incident.  
It was satisfactory to see fetters falling away, no matter of which making they might have been.  
“It is going well then,” he remarked, and Marius was on the verge of answering, when shouting, calling and – of all things – singing from outside the café interrupted any conversation they might have had. It was all but covered by the overall noise that filled the café, but it attracted their attention nonetheless, maybe because two of the voices seemed to be achingly familiar.  
Combeferre, who had not been present for the final distribution of errands due to his accompanying Hélène de Cambout, sent a slightly surprised gaze at Enjolras.  
“You didn’t,” he said, not without humor, and Enjolras could not help a world-weary sigh, heartily regretting his actions now. From the start, he had not been thrilled at the thought of sending – of all people – Courfeyrac and Grantaire to the Barrière du Maine. The disaster from a few weeks back still stood very clearly in his mind, but he had been convinced to give Grantaire the benefit of a doubt again. His high estimate in Courfeyrac’s ability to hold together a group had been the final thing that had tipped the scales in favor of this idea.  
Needless to say, he had gone against better judgment. Still, it was not a pleasant thing to see one’s suspicions confirmed.  
“I fear I did,” he confirmed unhappily. “I might add that I do have a suspicion that you are developing Jehan to be your spokesman in your absence, my friend.”  
Combeferre smiled slightly at that.  
“Is that so?” he replied enigmatically. Enjolras let it stand at that, because the door opened and he focused on the newly arrived.  
He had to hand it to Courfeyrac that it was a large group that entered the Musain, almost twenty, loud, raucous and even merry, and though he was placed at quite a distance to them, he still imagined he could just smell the remnants of alcohol that they brought with them. Grantaire was right in the middle of them, joking and laughing loudly, and – of all things – giving him a joyful wave that Enjolras shot down with one of his more deadly glares.  
Courfeyrac entered as one of the last with his hand on the shoulder of Pierre Lafague, one of the older members of the group. He was laughing as well, but Enjolras did not miss the slight tension that betrayed the fact that he was anything but relaxed.  
The noise in the room immediately increased as greetings popped up between those that knew one another and even those that didn’t but who joined in the brawl, simply out of merriment alone. Courfeyrac, taking a last look on his accomplishment, separated himself from Lafague to steer towards Enjolras and the other two, a broad grin on his face. There were some remnants of spirit on his breath but his eyes were clear. Obviously, he had been holding back.  
“All there and accounted for,” he answered, pride shining through his voice. “Including Grantaire, and that was not exactly the smallest of feats.”  
Enjolras had to agree that bringing the complete group here – even in the state they were in – was indeed something to be remarked, especially with the ball-and-chain that Grantaire’s presence was prone to be in such a venture.  
“I suppose I am to congratulate you then,” he answered, trying not to let too much of the annoyance show that he felt at the sudden turn of the assembly’s interest to the newly arrived.  
“That would be nice, at least,” Courfeyrac retorted, seemingly unfazed. He leaned against the entry to the back room and surveyed his achievement with a satisfaction that to Enjolras seemed slightly exaggerated. “Come on, Enjolras, I know what you want to say. Spit it out or leave it be, but don’t glare at me that way. It was like that or not at all.”  
Trust Courfeyrac to take the bull head-on. Enjolras nodded, knowing that Courfeyrac was probably not fully in the wrong. He had dealt with the Barrière du Maine group before and found them a capricious lot, enthusiastic in everything they did – artists, so it probably had to be expected – but also easily distracted and difficult to deal with. He had found it supremely difficult to reach them in the past. Probably, in the end it had not been the worst idea to send Courfeyrac.  
“Don’t let it fool you,” the man continued, dash gone, his voice all of a sudden serious. “They’re mourning. Grantaire and I crashed into something that was, for all intents and purposes, a wake for the Virille brothers, even if no one would have called it that way. I wouldn’t have interrupted that even if I could, so I brought them here in the state they were.”  
“Anyone of enough sense to talk to?” Enjolras asked, satisfied with the explanation, putting aside any reservations for the practical and the next steps of their venture.  
“I’d try Pierre Lafague, if I were you,” Courfeyrac mused thoughtfully. “Though I have a suspicion that a lot of them are not nearly as drunk as they pretend to be.” He raised his head at the voices coming from the back room and pushed himself away from the wall again. “But now you’ll have to excuse me, my friends. I think there’s a gamin arrived from the Rue des Grés, and I’d like to see how he’s faring.”  
Enjolras nodded absentmindedly, registering with a certain amount of pleasure that apparently both Éponine and Gavroche had made it back safely, despite his concerns. Turning towards Combeferre, he found the man’s gaze fixed on the entry door of the Café where three more figures were just pushing into the crowd, taking a few steps into the room.  
Hélène de Cambout was wearing deep mourning black, a dress of simple cut but rich fabric, a black veil hiding her face and expression nearly completely. At her side, Enjolras recognized Pierre Berat, xylographist for Le Globe, a man of about forty wearing a workman’s garb and a cap on his greying hair. The second man, dressed in much finer clothing, was not known to him and he made it a point to ask Combeferre later, since his friend was much more acquainted with the circle of the de Cambouts due to his involvement with their paper. The two men steered Madame de Cambout through the raucous group of revolutionists to a calmer part of the room, where they took up a lookout post. She let her gaze wander through the room and gave a curt nod in their direction that might have been directed at him, Combeferre or even the three of them.  
“Well,” Marius concluded. “It seems that most found their way here, at least. Could have been worse, could it not?”  
Enjolras, surveying the room, felt inclined to agree.  
They let another few moments pass while a few tardy visitors hurried into the café, pushing with difficulty into what had become a veritable crowd. A quick exchange of gazes with Marius, Courfeyrac – returning from the back room with Gavroche and a second gamin - and Combeferre finally decided the hour of action. Thus, Enjolras took a step, first on a chair, then on the table that he had cleared from the litter of notes that it had been covered with before. For a moment, he just stood there, watching the crowd, not saying a word as awareness that the assembly was about to begin spread through the visitors of the Café like a wave.  
There was a peculiar sort of energy in this moment of silence before the first words, and Enjolras let it linger there, feeling it assembling as more eyes turned towards him.  
At its peak, the wave broke, the tipping point reached, and Enjolras began to speak.  
“Citizens,” he began, “comrades-in-arms. My friends.” He let his gaze wander around, from students to workers, from men to women, from young faces to old. “For this we are, brought together by fate, wrath and purpose, maybe before our time, or maybe just where we were supposed to be. Friends we are, brothers today, every single one of us inside these walls.” He let the words linger for a moment, heard Combeferre shift slightly beside him. He would like that part of the speech, he thought, and so did many, as he opened the door to the companionship they so desperately needed.  
“You have followed our invitation; well done it was and appreciated it will be, for we are facing ourselves with a situation that has changed dramatically from what we knew. Many faces I see amongst you, my comrades, my friends, but even more are the ghosts I see between you; those who are not here, but who would have every right to stand amidst us, at our side.”  
He let his gaze wander over to where the group from the Barrière du Maine was standing and caught a peculiar look from a few of them. Perhaps it was with eyes that might have been glazed by the spirits, or even by tears. Over at the bar, where the Saint Antoine group had taken their lodgings together, he saw Jeanne Sellers standing closer to her husband, his stony face complemented by her expression of sorrow.  
“Yes,” he confirmed, a little softer, into the silence. “We have lost brothers, these days. We are diminished.”  
He let his voice take on intensity again; bit by bit, turning from past to present.  
“What malice has wrought this ploy, we do not know yet. But deep in our hearts, we all know why. We have been attacked by those we seek to overthrow. The war we have started to plan has been sent back into our own ranks, but how?” He drew himself to full height, letting his indignation and fury seep into his voice, into his every fiber. “We have met them on the places and squares of this city. We have shouted our accusations into their faces. We have cried words of their injustice so that even the stones may weep, have challenged them to meet us and to hear our pleas. And what have they done?”  
He snorted, shaking his head.  
“Knives in the dark. Stray attacks in a crowd. A coward’s mission for a coward’s regime. The last remnants of the achievements of the revolution are lying in shambles at our feet. Patria herself is weeping at what she sees. Tell me my friends – what is left of the declaration that our forefathers so courageously sent out as a beacon of hope to all mankind? Equality? Take a look around! Equals we are in this room, because we choose to be so, but outside, on the streets? The government is laughing at this noble intent!”  
Some grumbling rose in the room, and Enjolras continued, fuelling the anger that was beginning to rise. He needed them furious, he needed them courageous. Fear had no place in their venture, and he had set out to chase this specter from the room, once and for all.  
“Freedom? Resistance against opposition? Liberty of speech? Why don’t we ask Alexandre de Cambout about it, who openly spoke about what is happening in this city? Ah! We cannot. Because he paid with his life for what he believed in, paid with his life for the rights of man! How about the third article then? The people as the sole provider of sovereignty, the principles of Rousseau? Trampled upon by the man who calls himself king!”  
He spat out the word, for the murmurs had grown louder, intercepted by single shouts. Enjolras could almost grasp the energy in the room with his bare hands.  
“Every article of the sacred declaration, every thought of our brave and courageous forefathers has been warped and forgotten, has been torn and tattered beyond recognition. But are we not their daughters and sons? Is it not us now, who have to carry the torch if those who should honor it, have forgotten its significance? This is our responsibility, and we cannot remove ourselves from it and still be called man.”  
A few affirmative shouts spurred him on.  
“And thus I say – we will not have it. If it is battle they want, battle is what they shall receive. They have tried to scare us, to waiver us in our convictions, but we are more than that. We are those who will not be silent. We are those who honor the proud ideals of freedom, respect, democracy. And these will shine too brightly to be forgotten. Today, my friends, we mark the dawn of a new time. Divided we were, and united we shall be. They see us as one and the same? Well then we shall be it, and our combined fury and strength shall drive all those out of their rabbit holes that seek to divide us, seek to silence the voice that speaks what must be spoken. We will not stay idle in the face of oppression. For we…” he took a final breath, “we are the revolution! Who’s with me?!”  
Shouts went up, first – of course – from his friends, standing beside and around him like a living wall of trust and support, but the cries spread through the room like wildfire, a terrible, beautiful thing to behold.  
Enjolras felt himself trembling with the power of the onslaught, swept away with the almost overpowering wave of conviction that was a wonder to behold, a miracle that never lost its charm on him. He allowed himself the smallest of smiles.  
For an eternity, the room was a powder keg, shouts and chants and enthusiasm filling the air with an atmosphere thick enough to grasp. Enjolras used the relatively unwatched moment to help Combeferre mount the table at his side, where together, they waited for the rabble to die down, chief and guide, united in purpose and understanding.  
“Well spoken, my friend,” Combeferre said, just loud enough to make himself heard over the noise, and Enjolras smiled at this, because he knew the compliment to be sincere.  
“I have strived at winning their hearts,” he answered. “Now you direct their minds.”  
“All in time,” Combeferre answered and turned his gaze back to the crowd, waiting for the enthusiasm to settle slightly, an expression on his face that only those who knew him well, recognized for unease.  
Enjolras knew that his friend did not care much for taking up the stage for himself. He rather preferred to direct from the sidelines; it was his way to slip his thoughts and opinions rather quietly, but with no less conviction or impact. But this was not the way they could operate in these hectic days, and thus Combeferre had concurred to take up the torch that Enjolras had so enthusiastically lit.  
“Divided we were,” Combeferre began, taking up Enjolras’ words when the noise had sufficiently died down for his voice to be heard and understood, “and united we shall be. But what does that mean?” He did not raise his voice, and his tone was fairly even. It was the calm rock amidst the tide that Enjolras had unleashed, and yet, just as unwavering. He was emitting a conviction and calm strength that was a counterpoint to that of Enjolras, and he felt his pulse slowing down, his trembling receding as his friend continued to speak.  
“It means that where before we were a group of comrades, we must now become allies. We cannot continue as we have, each on their own paths and devices. But what is the path, you might ask? The answer is: I cannot tell you. For if I did, I would be no better than the ones we seek to overthrow. But what is it that we know? And what is it that we need?”  
Combeferre gave a smile as he took a short pause.  
“There is little we know about what has happened these last days and yet more than we think. This is what we need to assemble first. The enemy currently has no face, and his likeness is scattered amongst us in fragments and pieces, like an image shattered that only in its entirety can be understood. So this must be the first thing we do.”  
He took a moment’s pause, his voice slightly unsteady, and Courfeyrac handed up a mug of wine to him. Combeferre drank deeply, part in thirst, part – as Enjolras suspected – for courage, and went on.  
“The second objective, once information is gathered, must be coordination. Like I said, the many voices must unite, must form a chorus of sorts that will be easier to break than a single man’s song. So how can we achieve this? And here I draw on the thoughts of those that have spurred us on, on the lights that shine through the dark pages of history. And so, into this room I call the spirit of Kleisthenes of Athens. I call into this room the spirit of Rousseau. I call the courage of the fathers of the American constitution – Jefferson, Adams, Franklin. So we propose that each group of you call upon two representatives, so that we may form a council of sorts. A council of equals, legitimate by the trust of us all, quick of decision and strong in spirit. This shall be how we decide the path, like the democracy of Athens, like the dream that Rousseau never saw fulfilled. We will be the seed from which a republic shall spread.”  
He let this linger as Enjolras gauged the reaction of their audience. Combeferre had calmed the spirit of the room, certainly, but his proposal had elicited a couple of lively discussions amongst those present, and that was just as good. Indeed, it had been his idea to form this council, which would allow them to pass on information more quickly from one group to another. Enjolras had seen the advantages immediately and had needed little convincing.  
“All right.” Courfeyrac’s clear voice broke through the discussions that filled the room, as the various groups were already beginning to flesh out amongst themselves what the proposal brought before them might mean. He had exchanged places with Combeferre, who seemed to be quite relieved to be able to step down from the impromptu stage again. “After all this talk, let’s get practical, shall we?” He rubbed his hands and took a quick look around. His eyes were sparkling in the candle light and Enjolras realized that he was enjoying himself utterly. His enthusiasm spread easily, like wildfire on dry wood.  
“First things first. We’ll try, if we can, to assemble all those that will part of this lovely revolutionary council today – or at least get a few names. I know that not everyone’s here in full numbers, but at least one person from every group who feels he should show up would be nice. Jehan in the back room will take down names, mind you, so as soon as you have decided, feel welcome to go there. We’ll probably have a first assembly right away, since we’re all here, so don’t hesitate to come to our humble lodgings.”  
He slightly shifted on the table, the furniture wavering a bit unsteadily. Enjolras braced himself but of course, Courfeyrac was unfazed.  
“Now for the trivialities of life,” he continued, ticking points off his fingers. “Like Combeferre pointed out, it would be splendid to put a face to the enemy. Thus, everyone who thinks he has seen one of the attackers, go and talk to Feuilly. In the back room as well, even though, come to think of it, it may become a little cramped in there.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, it can’t be helped. In addition we need of course everyone who is practiced at drawing faces – say, for example those, who spend their days in ateliers and studios jutting down sketches before banning them to stone and marble, for example…” He winked at where the Barrière du Maine group was assembled, and a cheer went up from there. “Marius here is going to take down whatever else we know about the attackers, so if you saw someone go somewhere, recognized an oddity of speech or movement, heard rumors, smelled liquor on their breaths, whatever the suspicion; he’s the man you want to talk to.”  
He stemmed his hands into his hips, taking a moment’s consideration before he continued.  
“That probably covers our work here today, but while we’re at it already, a piece of friendly advice – “ he let his gaze sweep over the assembly for a moment before he continued, “we’ve made good experiences by explicitly not being alone. We divided into groups and made sure no one roams the streets alone. Or is alone during the night.” Predictably, his gaze quickly went to Gavroche for just a moment, but the gamin was not paying attention to his speech, but instead laughing away merrily with his young comrade about a joke that only they were privy to. “While it’s of course everyone’s own decision, as Combeferre would probably correct me now, this may be a wise course of action to avoid any further incidents.”  
For a moment, Courfeyrac exchanged a gaze with Enjolras. He raised his brows in an unspoken question, but Enjolras could not think of anything he might have forgotten that they could not take on in the smaller council they hoped would form. Thus, he responded with a minuscule shrug that his friend copied before he turned back to the crowds.  
“Well then,” he said, removing his hands from his hips and clapping them twice instead. Enjolras absurdly thought of a farmer herding his cattle. “Let’s get going, shall we?”  
From then on, it was pandemonium.

She chose the moment of chaos and disorganization to step up towards them. A calm, dark figure accompanied by two paladins, faithful guardians at her side.  
It was not often that Courfeyrac was left searching for words. But Alexandre de Cambout had, over the span of the last year, become his friend, and he flattered himself that this friendship had extended to his wife as well.  
The Cambouts were – or had been – a lively sort, and he had spent quite many interesting evenings in their company, be it in various places over the city or in their house in Rue d’Olivel. It was impossible to think that Alexandre was no more. It was impossible to imagine the one without the other.  
They had been ingenious in their dealings with the paper; Alexandre keeping patrons and capricious financiers in check, while Hélène spoke to the writers and arranged the daily dealings of the paper. In Alexandre’s name, of course, but Courfeyrac had never been fooled by this display.  
Alexandre had been the driving force of the paper, his enthusiasm brushing aside all thoughts of obstacles. But Hélène had been the paper’s soul.  
They had known and trusted each other with their eyes closed. Courfeyrac almost marveled at this strange and unusual sort of relationship, and found that this reminded him more of his connection with his friends in this Café than of a marriage. In response to this observation, he was utterly at loss how to console her.  
She took the decision from him as she reached their little group and greeted them with a befitting curtsy.  
“Messieurs,” she greeted them in a tone of neutrality, inclining her head first towards Enjolras and then to the rest of them before she firmly fixed her gaze on the leader again.  
“Madame.” Courfeyrac was not inclined to stand on ceremony, and he would not be denied. “I am deeply sorry for your loss.”  
She turned to him and nodded in what passed for gratitude, her eyes closed during the movement and dry as they reopened.  
“You shouldn’t have felt the need to come… not today,” Courfeyrac continued carefully, but she shook her head.  
“What I feel inclined to do, Monsieur Courfeyrac, is my decision and mine alone.” The reprimand was soft, but Courfeyrac could not shake the feeling that this was not the first time today, that she had uttered a similar statement. “In fact, I could have done nothing else.”  
She took a step aside to open up the path for her two companions.  
“I assume all of you know Pierre Berat?” she introduced the xylographist, who tipped his slightly shabby cap and gave a friendly greeting to all of them. Indeed they had met him before, since their dealings with Le Globe and the leaflets they had printed had, after a while, called for his arts on several occasions. Courfeyrac knew him to be a friendly man, quiet and calm, married, two young children, but not adverse to their cause and in his own silent way, very dedicated. Sometimes he thought, given a different crowd in his youth, Berat might have become a second Feuilly.  
“From what I have just heard,” and she gave a short nod towards the now empty table that they had used as a stage for their speeches, “I have a suspicion that his art may be needed. That is – if I assume correctly that you would have those faces banned on paper for better distribution?”  
“Indeed,” Enjolras confirmed, agitation in his voice. “This is splendid, Madame, and you have my profound thanks. Especially given the circumstances we would not have expected it.”  
“Given the circumstances, there was nothing else that I would have been able to do,” Hélène responded, her voice taking the same neutral, factual tone. “Make no mistake, Monsieur Enjolras. My husband is dead, and not a minute goes by where I would not do anything – anything – to remedy this, but this is a thing beyond my power.” Then, for just a split second, there was a remnant of pain in her voice, well hidden. “However,” she continued, “this…” she gestured towards Pierre Berat again, “is within my power. I did not follow around my husband in the way a sheep follows a shepherd. I intend to continue what he fought for, and thus, as long as I can keep it, Messieurs, Le Globe is still yours. And this…” her gaze turned back to Courfeyrac and behind the veil that hid her face he saw deadly determination in her eyes, “… is not something that could have waited.”  
Hélène nodded at the confirmation of acquaintance and turned towards her other companion. “Speaking of which: This is Docteur Olinde Rodrigues,” she introduced, and the man – of similar age as Berat but significantly better dressed, with dark hair and slightly oriental features – gave a greeting of his own. Combeferre seemed to know him, but the others did not. “He is part of the editing committee of Le Globe,” Hélène explained. “I am well aware, that I am facing a number of uncertainties ahead, and I am also aware that my time will be not fully my own during the days to come.” A sorrowful frown appeared on her face, but she continued and her voice was steady. “If you cannot reach me, speak to Monsieur Rodrigues as you would to Alexandre or myself. He has our utmost trust.”  
Rodrigues answered with a quick smile before he turned towards the group of revolutionaries again. “Monsieur Combeferre will probably know how to contact me,” he added, and Combeferre nodded, the ghost of a smile on his face.  
“Of course, Docteur,” he answered with a friendly nod. “We appreciate your offer.”  
“It is no more than we must do,” Rodrigues answered smoothly. “I am sure you know this as well.”  
Hélène nodded at the matter being settled, and Courfeyrac thought he could see a slight yielding in the line of her shoulder, as if some weight had been taken off them.  
“Messieurs, I hope you will excuse me,” she said, slightly less cool, slightly less composed. “It… has been a trying day.”  
“Of course.” Combeferre’s answer came all too quickly, before Courfeyrac could even react. “Will you be… safe on the way home?”  
“Don’t worry,” Rodrigues answered calmly. “I will see to it that she comes to no harm on her way back to the Dufranc estate.”  
Enjolras nodded.  
“Then this is settled. Madame…” he took a step towards Hélène, towering over her by almost a head. Courfeyrac blinked at the strange image they gave – bright, gold-locked Enjolras, lean and slender, and the small, slightly plump woman, clad completely in black, hair and face hidden by the mourning veil. “You have my utmost appreciation for coming here, for your offer and your continued support. It will not be forgotten.”  
“I would hope so,” she answered, and there was just the tiniest remnant of a spark in her voice, a fleeting glimpse of who Hélène de Cambout usually was. “It would be a wasteful shame of good work, otherwise.”  
“Indeed, Madame,” Enjolras confirmed. “Rest easy.”  
She nodded, and then, before they knew it, Rodrigues had steered her out of the café, and they heard the noise of a departing fiacre, hooves and wheels on cobblestone.  
Combeferre was staring at the door she had vanished through. His fingers gripped a chair that was standing at his side.  
His knuckles were white.  
Courfeyrac clapped his shoulder in brotherly appreciation.  
“You, my friend,” he informed him good-naturedly, “are the biggest fool this side of the Seine.”  
The smile on Combeferre’s face was wan.  
“I know,” he said. “I know.”


	22. Midnight on the firing line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which obstacles hinder planning and in the end the sun rises

**Chapter 21 Midnight on the firing line**   
_“’To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.’”_

“They can’t be serious.”  
As Stéphane herded him along, Marc Lamarin gave a gaze at his fellow companions that was part exasperation and part plain, naked fear.  
The last one and a half days had been a pure nightmare. But even after having been threatened, thrown into unknown society and pushed into a position of keeping together those he considered his associates in this town, the current situation still held very different terrors of its own.  
“Why not?” asked Stéphane with a slightly amused grin. He looked much better than he had in the afternoon – a few hours of sleep had done wonders on him – and he was back to the man Marc Lamarin knew: amusing, fierce and proud in a way that was alarmingly at odds with his well-being. “If anyone’s earned it, it’s you, as far as I was concerned. You had my voice, that’s for sure.”  
“So I have you among others, to thank for this?”  
“Indeed,” Stéphane confirmed, without even the slightest hint of remorse, clapping on Lamarin’s shoulder in brotherly appreciation. “And now stop fretting. Let’s see what this council is about.”  
Lamarin nodded, but his gaze wandered back to his comrades who were still scattered about various tables, deep in discussion as drinks were refreshed and the evening drew on.  
“I wonder,” he finally said, “what Jacques will make of it.”  
Stéphane made a face.  
“Ah yes, there’s that,” he commented uneasily. “That’s going to be interesting. But not today, Marc. Things are as they are now. Jacques is not here. We are. So let’s get going.”  
The back room of the café was only slightly less packed, but on the whole, it was better organized than the main room.  
By way of assembling the tables, the Amis de l’ABC had divided the room into two sections.  
On the far end where a second corridor led deeper into the building itself, a group of tables had been placed, around which activity was ongoing. This was where the gathering of information took place. Lamarin recognized a number of faces, both familiar and unfamiliar, going about exactly what Courfeyrac and Combeferre had asked about before.  
Éponine was sitting next to Feuilly, showering the gentle fan maker in instructions while he drew, coal gliding over paper. Lamarin could not make out the result of their efforts, but he assumed that they were working either on the image of the attacker on the Amis de l’ABC, or the dwarf who had assaulted the de Cambouts.  
Three other men, presumably members of the group stemming from the Barrière du Maine had taken up a seat and started on the same activity. They all worked together; two members of the Cougourde, a number of other men and two gamins, one of them being the ingenuous boy who called himself Gavroche.  
A man of middle age strolled about them almost leisurely, talking at times to each artist, frequently assessing the images with squinted eyes, scratching his curly head under his cap doubtfully.  
Stéphane placed a quick hand on Lamarin’s shoulder.  
“Go on already, Marc, I will be right back,” he said. “I fear I also have an account to give on the juggler I have seen.”  
Marc, terrified at the thought of being the sole representative and slightly angered at the off-handed way with which Stéphane had dismissed having been appointed spokesmen by his fellows, shook his head.  
“Surely you can do that afterwards,” he contradicted. “Should we not first do what we have been asked to do by our friends?”  
Stéphane had already been on the verge of leaving, but he stopped and watched Marc Lamarin with an uneasy frown that the younger man was fairly unable to place.  
In all truth, he did not know Stéphane very well. He had been closer to Joseph than Jacques, and therefore not so much part of the group that Lamarin had frequented. But he had always seemed to him as a fairly agreeable fellow.  
After a moment’s hesitation, Stéphane responded with a nod.  
“Fair enough,” he said. “Then let’s go.”  
And thus, they joined the group that had assembled in the corner opposite to those who were trying to put faces to their attackers. Here also, several tables had been grouped together to form a single one, around which those assembled that had agreed to take part in the council.  
“Ah, the Cougourde,” Enjolras said by way of greeting, and offered them places to sit. Combeferre gave them all a solemn welcome, his eyes lingering for a moment longer on Lamarin.  
Enjolras let his gaze wander around the table for a moment. It was, on the whole, a strange group of staggering diversity, but he seemed satisfied and nodded once.  
“That probably concludes it,” he said, even though there were still chairs left at the table. But then again, Marc had thought that it had probably been difficult to estimate how many different groups would have felt the need to send a representative.  
A quick count brought up the number of twelve.  
Which was, on the whole, not the worst of numbers.  
“Given the fact that I am not sure that all around the table are acquainted with each other, I would suggest a quick round of introduction,” Combeferre proposed after exchanging a quick glance with Enjolras, who concurred, nodding.  
“Sébastien Enjolras.” He followed the advice of his friend without hesitation. “Amis de l’ABC.” Combeferre at his side followed suit. “Jean Combeferre. Same group.”  
“Ramon Deleric,” the man next to Combeferre introduced himself. His dark curls and black eyes reminded Lamarin of Jacques, but he obviously lacked the elegance in dress or manners, having discarded his jacket and sitting only in his waistcoat, sleeves rolled up. “University of France.”  
“Franc Goudin,” continued a pale wisp of a man, slim and bespectacled, with hair blonde enough to be almost white. “La Sorbonne. University of France, I mean.”  
Marc Lamarin almost would have smiled. The former theology faculty had been the only one that still clung to the old thought of a university divided into schools, as opposed to the wholesale learning body that the University of France had become since 1793. There had been debates in the university, the theology students being remarkably stubborn about the old denomination of their faculty.  
“Christophe Anillon,” said a burly young man. He was blond and broad shouldered, hands clearly showing the remnants of rough labor. He was dressed simply, the waistcoat showing clear signs of wear, but he did not seem to be self-conscious about it. Instead, his manner and gaze were frowning and carried a certain gruff note.  
“Jeanne Sellers.” Her voice was remarkably rough for a woman, almost deep enough to be a man’s and slightly rasping. She did not seem to be concerned to be the sole female of this assembly, sitting comfortably without much elegance in her simple, bluish dress. Her hair was thick, light brown and wound into a fairly coarse braid and only with difficulty contained in a bun on the back of her head.  
Goudin shuffled uncomfortably.  
“A woman?” he asked slightly incredulously, giving a questioning glance to Enjolras to whom he had apparently singled out as the temporary spokesman of their improvised council. But the leader of the ABCs did not even have time to answer, because Jeanne Sellers apparently had no intention of letting this comment pass.  
“Thanks for noticing,” she replied, sarcasm coloring her voice as she crossed her arms before her in defense. “It doesn’t happen all too often.”  
“A bluestocking, more like,” Stéphane murmured privately to Lamarin under his breath and chuckled. But of course, the woman heard and her head went around to him, a brow slightly raised. In an almost exasperated gesture, she unfolded her arms, taking hold of the hem of her dress to lift it slightly, revealing white stockings in her leather shoes. Lamarin felt quite winded at the improper gesture, but Jeanne Sellers rose her eyes to Stéphane again and shrugged.  
“Not really,” she responded. “But I could go home and change if that would make you feel more comfortable.”  
Stéphane, to his credit, actually grinned at the response, while Franc Goudin’s exasperated start of a sentence, “Are you really going to…” intercepted with Christophe Anillon’s slightly annoyed exclamation of “Jeanne!” Combeferre’s slightly softer, but still well-heard, “Peace, peace everyone,” broke through their cries.  
Lamarin turned back, tore his gaze away from the woman who had crossed her arms again and glared at the assembly defiantly. Like Goudin, she singled out Enjolras as the one who would probably make a decision and directed her gaze at him. He held it with natural ease.  
After a moment’s silence, Jeanne continued, slightly less defensive.  
“Look,” she said. “We made a call of names, and out came Christophe and myself. I didn’t even volunteer, but I won’t apologize either. I don’t want to overstay my welcome here. I suppose John could do it as well as I do, if that sits better with everyone, but that would still speak kind of volumes of how serious you all are about changing things and freedom for the people.”  
Enjolras’ lips shortly twitched at that; if in annoyance, or even humor, Lamarin could not tell.  
“She does have a point, Goudin,” he answered neutrally. “And we have not assembled to define how the various groups determine their representatives.”  
“I respectfully disagree,” Franc Goudin shook his head, pale wisps of hair wavering about him. “What legitimacy can a council have if the premises for election are not really defined?”  
“A valid question if this were a ruling body,” Combeferre elaborated. “Which it is clearly not. I will agree with you readily that for a legitimate representative body, a sort of constitution must be the center and fundamental of the formation of a council or parliament. However…”  
“That’s the question of the hen and the egg,” Stéphane intercepted. “We can go on for days, if that’s what we want.” He sounded annoyed, toying with the handle of the mug that he had brought with him. Lamarin felt slightly anxious. He had never been privy to the firsthand experience, but from all he knew and had been told, Stéphane being annoyed was a circumstance to be avoided.  
“Which we don’t, I hope,” added a voice of a slightly older man from Lamarin’s left, not without sarcasm. “This might be a dreadfully boring thing otherwise.”  
“Hah!” Stéphane concurred, clapping his hands. His mug would have toppled if Lamarin had not expected this and caught the tumbling cup. “My thoughts exactly.”  
“Think of it more,” Combeferre tried again, from a different angle this time, “like a council between states, if you will. The peace negotiations in Westphalia. The congress of Vienna…”  
“Which we certainly will not take as a model for anything,” Ramon Deleric gave back hotly, and not without a certain amount of sarcasm. “I hope we can agree on that.”  
“Certainly neither in result nor spirit,” Enjolras concurred. “But what Combeferre means is that these kinds of assemblies are based on a certain necessity, as well as the will of all participants to cooperate. The choice of representatives however, is fully in the hands of the various parties.”  
“I wonder what they would have made of Maria de Medici in Osnabrueck,” Stéphane commented to Lamarin again quietly. Marc was beginning to feel a slight annoyance at his exasperating comrade, who was not exactly being helpful in the way of bringing this assembly forward.  
“She was dead already at that time. And in exile before that,” he informed Stéphane coolly. “And apart from that, this comparison is unbefitting in so many ways that I would not even know where to start commenting.”  
Stéphane was unfazed, but shrugged and leaned back.  
“Just thinking,” he commented, and let it pass.  
“We should not forget why we are actually here,” Combeferre began. “And while there is a time for fundamental questions on the nature of councils and parliaments, I fear that this is not the hour.” He shared a quick gaze with Enjolras, who had actually raised an inquisitive brow that was responded to by his friend with a shrug and a miniature smile.  
“So,” Enjolras took up the thread, gazing first at Goudin, then around the table. “Is this a perimeter under which we might work?”  
Goudin hesitated for a moment before he eventually nodded.  
“I guess the comparison is befitting,” he said.  
Others responded with nods or small words of confirmation, and Enjolras nodded, satisfied.  
“So then let us continue the introduction.”  
Stéphane and Lamarin were next, giving their names and affiliation before the cue went to Eustace Reverre – the slightly older man who had shown similar impatience to that of Stéphane – and Pierre Lafague, both from the Barrière du Maine.  
Representing the cell from Picpus sat the probably most unusual member of this assembly. Frater Antoine was a member of the order of the Frères of Picpus, and he made it fairly clear that he had been pushed into this position by the members of his group against his will.  
“It is not befitting for a man of god to entangle that deeply in these dealings,” he said, not without regret. “Yet, I understand that the lambs are shaken by the events of the day. We have not been able to contact a significant number of brothers, and we do not know if they are even alive. I agreed to take on the place on this council only for today – there will be someone else as soon as we have regrouped and the dust has settled slightly. Griollet here, however, will stay on.”  
Enjolras nodded.  
“It is appreciated. Thank you Frater.”  
He let his gaze wander around the table.  
“Very well,” he said. “So let’s begin.”

 

Enjolras quite intentionally did not take out his pocket watch to take a look at the time when the rabble finally died down. Dawn would tell the time soon enough.  
After the assembly of Combeferre’s improvised council had concluded, midnight had already passed. The subsequent discussions had further stretched the hours, time passing like wind, unmarked and unmourned.  
Finally, the visitors filed out, some in groups of two or three, others forming merry bunches, mostly taking up Courfeyrac’s advice to group together to provide less valuable targets in the process. The Saint Antoine group left as a whole, going the same way they had come earlier this evening.  
Pierre Berat was collecting a set of drawings that had been produced in the back room, exchanging words with Feuilly, who was wiping smudges of coal from his hands as the two artists assessed the work of the evening. Enjolras felt a pang of bad conscience knowing that, unlike the rest of them, Feuilly would not be able to stretch his night rest into the morning hours. It was highly likely that he would have to pass to the atelier he worked at right away, without even an hour of repose. Given the fact that the man looked tired, Enjolras considered briefly that he should have seen this before.  
But then again, the same went for the others that were part of the working class. Most of the Saint Antoine group, a few of those from Picpus, and the marble workers from the Barrière du Maine as well. Some of them had left early, but the majority had stayed up until now.  
It was easy to forget in the fervor of things to be done.  
Combeferre followed his gaze and nodded without uttering a word – the long familiarity between them had him probably guess Enjolras’ thoughts anyway – and he went over to where Feuilly and Berat were sitting, exchanging a few words with them; kind, but insisting.  
For a moment, the fan maker seemed to contradict, but tiredness finally won over and the two of them went down to the main room, presumably to have a word with Lucien and Madeleine.  
It had happened before that one of them had stayed in an improvised cot in the kitchen of the Musain, most often to Grantaire, but a few times to Bahorel, Courfeyrac or Feuilly as well. It had been due to a particularly vicious bout of drinking for the first three, but out of similar reasons like today for the latter.  
Berat, on the other hand, stepped up to Enjolras, his copy of the drawings of the assassins with him. He gave them over to Enjolras to have a look and he sifted through them quickly.  
The first one was eerily accurate, and the image instantly brought back remembrance of the day before; the figure in the market. He had only seen him for an instant, but the likeness on paper was remarkable.  
The second was a drawing of a man with a slightly knotted face, plumb nose, deep sunken eyes and a mop of unruly hair. Full lips and a slightly asymmetrical chin completed the picture, and a denomination in Feuilly’s accurate, clean writing read ‘dwarf’.  
“I will have Madame look at it to confirm,” Pierre explained calmly, and Enjolras nodded in agreement.  
The third showed a picture that was much less clear – the image of a jester as he would have seen on any given market, with a cap and a painted face. The depiction of the face was much less detailed than for the first two, which was unsurprising. Such a masquerade did tend to obscure the man beneath, and most of the Cougourde group had remembered the man by his dress and type rather than his actual features. ‘Fairly short’, the accompanying note said, and ‘slender’.  
At the side, almost as an afterthought, there was a crude painting of the same face without painting, the features only coarsely hinted at, as memories and descriptions had obviously been hazier than the first two.  
The fourth picture was again relatively accurate, showing a young man with a smooth face, large eyes, carefully swung brows accentuating a finely chiseled face. He was not beautiful, but handsome, yet not overly so as to attract an unduly amount of attention.  
“This came from the description of the boy,” Pierre Berat explained and Enjolras wondered if he was referring to Gavroche or the other gamin that he had brought with him to the meeting. He would have to make it a point to ask Courfeyrac about it.  
“These are very well done,” Enjolras praised, feeling a short bout of sadness that Feuilly had not been there so that he could have given him the compliments himself. He would have to remember it on the morrow. Berat nodded.  
“Yes, indeed. I will speak with Madame tomorrow – well, rather today – morning about the details, but we will get to setting the xylographs right away.” He appreciated the drawings again, a frown on his face. “Madame was kind enough to agree to having less images in the next two days of le Globe, so I hope we can get it done by tomorrow evening.”  
Enjolras knew from Combeferre that Berat was master over four journeyman xylographists, all who worked for Le Globe and were his to supervise and direct. He nodded.  
“Thank you very much, Monsieur Berat,” he said, placing a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “I would have you know that this is very well appreciated. And give my regards and utmost thanks to Madame de Cambout again, if you see her. I fear she is doing us a kindness that we will hardly be ever able to repay.”  
Berat nodded and took to placing his drawings into the satchel he had brought.  
“She is Madame,” he answered, explaining everything and nothing.  
“Mayhap,” Enjolras proposed, “some of the others will be able to drop you off on the way home. After all that we have heard, I can only conclude that we are being watched. Perhaps even now, and I would hate for you to be an easy target.”  
Berat nodded in accordance.  
“Rest easy,” he said. “I have already asked around. There are a few students that live not too far off.”  
Enjolras, satisfied with the answer, bade him goodnight. The man left the Café, calmly and unobtrusively, as was his manner, crossing a returning Combeferre at the entrance to the back room.  
“Feuilly will get a few hours of sleep in the kitchen here,” he reported, and Enjolras nodded, calmed to some extent. It was not in his manner to continuously ensure the well-being of those around him, but still he appreciated to know that all was being taken care of. Especially these days.  
Together, they stood in companionable silence and watched the rabble dying down. The room had the languid feeling of a job accomplished to it. It was a rare contentment that came with the dying down of activity, mingled with a certain satisfaction at the deed itself.  
Joly and Bossuet had shooed Marc Lamarin out; now he joined his companions from the Cougourde, bantering good-naturedly with Bahorel at the abandoned drawers’ tables.  
In a corner of the room where the walls were equipped with benches, the corresponding tables currently removed to the posts of command they had improvised, Gavroche and his young comrade calmly slept. The former was covered with Courfeyrac’s jacket, the latter with Bahorel’s violet one. Next to them sat a slightly thoughtful Jehan, observing the room with an absent-minded smile and Grantaire, his hands as ever, glued to a mug of wine.  
At the entrance from Rue des Grès, Éponine and Marius were discussing, and Enjolras could not help frowning at that. Marius’ posture and manner was beseeching, while hers seemed almost reluctant, her shoulders tense and uncomfortable.  
But before he could find it in himself to understand, whether what he felt was indignation or just annoyance at the distractedness of Pontmercy, he felt a weight on his shoulder. Courfeyrac, who had crept up on them from behind, wiggled between him and Combeferre, arms draped over both their shoulders.  
“So,” he said cheerfully, “do we proclaim this operation a partial success, or what?”  
“I would say so,” Combeferre answered with a slight smile. “I daresay we could be looking at a worse situation than we are right now.”  
“I see,” Courfeyrac nodded gravely. “So, what does a man have to do to get a full account from his friends on a meeting he was all but excluded from? Buy a round of wine for everyone?”  
Enjolras, while understanding his friend’s curiosity and feeling quite inclined to satisfy it, was about to reject the offer, but Combeferre was quicker.  
“I will pass, I think,” he said, “but thank you for the offer, and of course…”  
He broke off, realizing that the rest of his speech might not receive the appreciation deserved, because Courfeyrac had not even fully waited for an answer. He instead departed towards the main room, shouting to Louison to bring up the desired beverage, as a celebration was in order.  
The exclamation seemed to rouse everyone again, the friends crowding around the assembly of tables as Lucien brought up a set of bottles into the back room. Even the two gamins, roused by the activity in the room, moved towards them again. They looked quite droll in the oversized coats that they had not bothered to take off, as they – slightly sleepily – took their place at the table.  
Éponine hesitated for a moment before joining them, coming in a step behind Marius, looking at the assembly with a certain reservation, looking towards him as if she were asking for permission.  
Enjolras, with difficulty, pushed aside exasperation. She was taking half a step back for every single one that she went towards them. It was also a tiresome, slow process that called forth his impatience.  
She was not timid, he thought. She did not mind speaking frankly, as she had proven to him on various occasions, remarkably frankly, as if challenging, daring him to be affronted at her lack of poise and manners.  
He frowned slightly at the revelation, wondering what had inspired it.  
Yet, neither did he fear being challenged, and he was less easily to be offended by courage and good sense than rumor would often have him.  
When it came to Éponine, there was probably some understanding in order. He did imagine that the life she had been living had been a difficult one. Those which fell through the cracks of what passed for a society in France these days probably had little reason or inclination for trust.  
Fetters, everywhere…  
She had hesitated at his frown, only slightly, but finally, her courage won over. She tilted her head while meeting his gaze, another dare yet, and he responded with a raise of his brow.  
“Mademoiselle?” he asked drily, the best way to scold her for her hesitancy he could think of. She was surprised for just a moment, but then, of all things, the ghost of a smile crept onto her tired, narrow features.  
A few steps later, she took a seat at the table, as if she had been doing it for years.  
Courfeyrac, not sharing the hesitancy of Enjolras and Combeferre – in fact, not respecting it – handed out mugs filled with wine, starting with the two who had explicitly denied drinking with them in the young hours of the morning.  
Enjolras, knowing his friend well enough to estimate that just playing along would require less effort then getting into an argument, took a sip and began the much desired account. Also, he had begun to feel rather tired himself.  
“The council has been formed of twelve members as of now. It may well be that we will have some additions to it later, given the fact that some of the looser fractions are not represented, even though it may be worthwhile to include them. As long as things are vague as they are now, we will meet every other day, with at least one representative for each group at alternating locations to be able to keep the word from spreading too far. We will start at the Corinth the day after tomorrow, and from then on, we will probably turn to the lodgings of the other groups as well.”  
“It’s an experiment, of sorts,” Combeferre added, looking woefully into his still-full mug. “An attempt at unification has not been tried. There is a certain risk to it, diverse as we are, but…”  
“We’ve discussed this before,” Enjolras interrupted. Combeferre’s doubts were well noted. A council of this diverse a nature was in any case a difficult ship to sail. Revolutionists of a more Jacobin nature, Saint-Simonists, Reformists, Romantics, even all those who knew too little to attach a specific political affiliation to them, while still feeling that their cause was generally a just one, made up for a heterogeneous group that was difficult to direct or control. Yet the benefits of the arrangement outweighed the dangers by far.  
Combeferre sighed and pinched his nose with two fingers, obviously tired. They all were. Outside the Café, the first sounds of birds awakening heralded the arrival of morning.  
“Yes, I know,” Combeferre replied slightly ruefully. “So, apart from a rather philosophical discussion on the legitimacy and political justification of this council, we have breached the matter of how we deal with the official investigations that are certainly ongoing in this city.”  
Enjolras nodded.  
“In fact, Éponine and I have encountered an Inspector going by the name of Javert in La Force. He had been on his way to investigate the whereabouts of the Rue d’Olivel assassin.”  
“Javert?” That roused Gavroche, who had been content to huddle on a bench at Courfeyrac’s side, half asleep, but still listening. “That man’s a loose cannon.”  
Enjolras remembered the short conversation he had had with the inspector, an experience he did not particularly care to repeat. Whatever Javert’s dealings otherwise, Enjolras was sure that the policeman had recognized him. It was probably due to, as Éponine had pointed out, that head of his. Plus the situation had been a tense one, where law and insurrection had met and passed one another unscathed. He would certainly rather avoid another brush-in with the man.  
“You know him?” Courfeyrac turned towards Gavroche, who grinned mischievously. “What’d you do without me, hm? ‘Course I know him. Sniffs around in all the corners, that one. Better beware.”  
“I would not have put it quite that way,” Enjolras added his own words to that of the boy, “but yes, I would not feel grieved either if our dealings with this man would be brief to nonexistent.”  
“Nevertheless,” Combeferre intercepted, calmly, but not without determination, hence drawing their attention back to him. He was returning to the recall of the result of a hard-won argument. “We in the end agreed that it may be more beneficial to cooperate with the authorities in this matter, as long as we do not put ourselves in danger.”  
“Bah,” Bahorel snorted in disgust. “Why should we ever do that?”  
Combeferre turned towards him, steepling his fingers thoughtfully. Enjolras leaned back and watched. It was a repetition of the discussion that had carried out during the improvised council, where Combeferre had – with surprising vehemence and eloquence – argued for cooperating with the municipal police. And won.  
“Because whatever else may be going on, and whatever else our opinions may be – what has happened to us yesterday is against even the laws of Louis Phillipe. There is no telling yet who is behind this charade – and we would do well to find out – but I cannot imagine that the whole set of municipal police, including their helpers and supporters, is privy to this sort of procedures. There is a good chance that the attacks on us may open quite a few eyes in influential places about what this government really is.”  
“Hmm…” Bahorel mused, thoughtfully tapping his knuckles onto the table. “I like the way you’re thinking.”  
“Thank you,” Combeferre replied drily.  
“Apart from that we have again emphasized the current need of companionship,” Enjolras took up the thread again. “In addition, we will spread the word further, both on the regime and revolution itself, as well as on what happened. It would do well to distribute the knowledge of the attacks in the city so that there is less possibility for hiding and covert action.”  
“That’s a dangerous thing to do.” Enjolras turned towards the source of the voice. Éponine, her arms crossed, had leaned back in her chair and watched him defiantly. “You might make them more desperate.”  
Enjolras nodded.  
“Yes, we might. We have considered that. However, at the end, we will not want to spend the rest of our days looking anxiously over our shoulders. Truth is, Éponine, we want them found, and soon. If anything we do chases them out of hiding, all the better.”  
She shrugged and considered this for a moment before she nodded, perhaps not in agreement, but at least in appreciation.  
“That’s a brave thing to do,” she said, strangely earnest, and Enjolras was not quite sure what kind of response was expected from him.  
“Ah, but that’s us,” Courfeyrac answered, unfazed. “And I agree actually with both of you. I’m sick of hiding.”  
“Hear, hear,” Bahorel answered, predictable as the sun that was rising outside the café, bathing the streets in an eerie, greenish light. “Never a truer word spoken inside these four walls.”  
“So this covered that,” Combeferre tried to pick up a lost thread from before. “Also, we tried to gain an overview on the number of people available for each group. The Barrière du Maine and Saint Antoine seem to be on our side in full numbers, apart from those that have fallen to the attacks. With the Cougourde, things are slightly more difficult. There have been a few members that refused to show up or further participate in our activities.”  
“That was probably just what was intended,” Jehan spoke up unexpectedly. “Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed.”  
“As Shakespeare would say,” Combeferre concurred with a slight smile. “Just so, Prouvaire, I assume that this was indeed the intention.”  
Enjolras took up the thread and continued.  
“Things are worse still in Picpus. Frater Antoine has been unable to locate most of them, and what investigations he carried out do not inspire much confidence. We do not know how many of them have fallen.”  
“Patience,” counseled Combeferre, but his sorrowful gaze spoke otherwise. “We may yet learn more.”  
Silence settled in for a moment, again broken by Courfeyrac who stretched languorously like a cat.  
“Well then,” he concluded. “A successful night after all.”


	23. Brothers and sisters, lovers and friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marius is looking for Cosette, Éponine is looking for herself and everyone else is just looking for sleep

**Chapter 22: Brothers and sisters, lovers and friends**

_Understanding is a three/edged sword_

In fact, no one really liked it. Enjolras didn’t – that much was clear by the frown plastered on his face. Courfeyrac’s expression showed it even more acutely, and he was much more outspoken and direct about it, both towards Marius and Gavroche; and Combeferre, while he refrained from commenting, was radiating displeasure at a remarkable level, given his normally calm demeanor.  
Éponine most certainly did not like it – but the expression in her eyes was a telltale sign of the fact, that for her these things were never easy, and that she was at least of two minds when it came to this.  
Gavroche, finally, while agreeing to do it, had done so only for the benefit of his sister.  
“Best someone watches this”, he confided to Courfeyrac by way of explanation. The student gave him a somewhat doubtful gaze and a shake of his head.  
“That’s much appreciated, little man”, he said. “But it would not be necessary, if Marius would just see…”  
“He won’t.” For someone pretending to be a grown-up, Courfeyrac could be remarkably dense at times. There was no arguing with the baron’s son, that was obvious by his pleading gaze that rested on Éponine, and there was no arguing with Éponine, when it came to a request from Marius.  
Courfeyrac sighed.  
“You’re probably right”, he concurred, folding his arms before him. “Still. It’s going to leave you alone, it’s going to leave her alone, and all for the woes of Marius.”  
Gavroche shrugged. “She’ll be with our folks”, he reminded his friend. “And I won’t be alone, remember? I got me boys with me. Can’t leave them alone anyhow. Plus, grown-ups won’t come into that elephant anyway. Too small, you see?”  
Courfeyrac shook his head.  
“It’s wood and paper, little man. Not much use against a pistol.”  
Gavroche thought that Courfeyrac was missing the point completely.  
“It’s home”, he explained patiently, yet with determination. “And I’m going there.”  
“Via Rue Plumet, it seems”, Courfeyrac conceded with a sigh, and Gavroche nodded, adding the rest of the route they were going to take this night – or rather this morning:  
“and the Gorbeau house and your place, to drop off Marius. Fits just fine. I’ve been wanting a word with ‘Ponine anyhow.”  
A smile found its way on Courfeyrac’s features at that Gavroche did not really understand. But Courfeyrac smiling was better than him looking worried, or angry, and so he counted his blessings and took what he could get.  
He was a Thénardier, after all.  
“Don’t worry”, he said, taking a look around to spot Sylvain, who was extracting himself from the funny coat that Bahorel had given him to sleep in. The young one had held up splendidly in the meeting, doing the most fabulous description of the man he had talked to. In the end he had even said the drawing the marble worker had jutted down on paper was remarkably recognizable.  
Sylvain, if on the quiet side, was a good one, Gavroche decided. But there was Courfeyrac, still waiting for the rest of his answer, and he grinned.  
“If you’re good, I’ll bring you some bread from Madame Vescis.”  
Courfeyrac almost snorted in laughter.  
“Well”, he said with a twinkle, “I’ll try to be good, then. Run along little man. Take care of the others.” He ruffled Gavroche’s hair, a habit, of which the gamin had a hard time deciding if he liked it or was rather annoyed by it. If anything, he was glad that the somber mood had passed like a gust of wind. That was a good thing about Courfeyrac. He never held a grudge, or lingered to long on a futile thing. “I’ll see you in a little while.”  
Gavroche nodded and stepped over to Sylvain, who, coat in hand, was apparently considering whether he dared to return the garment to Bahorel or not. Gavroche did not fault him for it – the man was intimidating up close the first time (actually, he could still be pretty intimidating the second, third or twentieth time if he chose to, but he rarely did and Gavroche was not easily intimidated in any case) – but Sylvain had to learn none the less, and therefore Gavroche was unmerciful.  
Passing over to Marius – who looked anxious to be off into the streets - he saw his sister, out of the corner of his eye, talking to Enjolras of all people. Not a pleasant conversation, from what their body language was telling, but too soft for Gavroche to accidentally overhear. No matter, he would pry the story from her later.  
However, as he reached Marius and hopped onto a table for comfortable sitting until they would finally leave, he saw Enjolras withdrawing a knife that had been hidden in the lapels of his coat and handing it to her, handle first.  
Éponine shook her head, as the conversation became louder.  
“I won’t have need for that”, she rejected, raising her hands in refusal.  
Enjolras’ blue eyes were almost cold as they tried to convince the gamine into submission.  
“I beg to differ. We have no idea who of our group the next target might be. You have more or less single handedly saved the lives of four of their targets. I think it is fair to say that this sort of action will have attracted their attention.”  
Éponine was still far from taking the knife. She crossed her arms before her chest and her glowering gaze was, if no match for Enjolras’ glare, at least an adequate weapon of defense.  
“I know my way around.”  
“I know”, Enjolras responded. Gavroche could hear that he started to be annoyed. “This is why I am trying to give this to you instead of making a strong argument for you staying with the rest of us!”  
Éponine made a small, annoyed sound deep in her throat.  
“I have roamed the streets of Paris since even before you came here.” Gavroche suspected that Éponine had no idea when Enjolras had come here – neither had Gavroche, by the way – but he did not call her bluff. Instead, he refused to pick up on her comment.  
“Your point being?” he gave back deadpan, and Gavroche thought that he was right.  
The interesting question was why he cared.  
“What makes you think”, Éponine continued, obviously trying another angle, “that I won’t just sell it? That’s a fine knife you have there.” And yet, something in her posture had slightly changed; a subtle shift from utter defiance to something that was actually more of a challenge than true and pure fury. Enjolras snorted.  
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He brought the offered knife slightly closer to her. “If it’s any consolation”, he continued, “it’s only borrowed. I’m expecting it back.”  
Éponine considered that for a moment.  
“All right”, she finally said, taking the knife with a bit more vigor than was actually merited. “All right. If it makes you shut up on this.”  
Enjolras raised an eyebrow, but choose not to comment.  
Interested, curious, Gavroche filed this observation for further reference.

Gavroche, Sylvain and Éponine were trailing behind a fairly eager Marius, who had all but barged out into the beginning light of another early summer day.  
The air was still crisp and cool, and as fresh as Paris would get, dew having softened the gorier stenches of the city, to return when the heat picked up.  
They were currently passing through the Jardin du Luxembourg that was deserted at this hour except for two students that were lazily leaning against the trunk of an acorn tree, their clothes slightly disheveled as they talked away the morning obviously in continuation of what had been a long night.  
Children, Éponine thought, even though they were presumably older than her, but oblivious in their youth and carelessness. She envied and disdained them in roughly equal parts, but then, as she passed them and heard their laugh she felt reminded of the playfulness of Courfeyrac, the dash and courage of Bahorel and remembered, that there were as many shades to a bourgeois as there were to a gamine, and that if she were to follow on the words she had given the evening before she should start to be able to see beyond what met the eye.  
“Courfeyrac told me you joined the crowd”, Gavroche said, at length, and he could barely keep the grin of his face at this news. For a moment, Éponine marveled at how quickly this bit of information had apparently spread through the friends of Enjolras. He had been true to his word at least. And he certainly lost no time.  
“Little telltale”, she scolded and pulled his ear affectionately. Gavroche made a face in response and pretended to be offended.  
“Ouch!” he said. “What was that for?”  
“For having much too big a mouth”, Éponine scolded him, but good-naturedly. She knew him well enough to judge his grin for what it was, but she really could not have him get away with having been right in the argument they had had the day before. “And why did he tell you that anyway?”  
That gave Gavroche pause for a moment. His eyes trailed to Marius, who was a few steps ahead, slightly uneasy for a moment, but then he shrugged. And Éponine knew what he would say before he actually did it.  
“I told him about you bein’ me sister”, he confirmed her suspicion. “Sorry ‘bout that.”  
Éponine felt a slight surge of anger that she could not fully place. She was not even sure why she had not wanted his friends to know. It had been an indistinct feeling of trying to keep her distance to them, of not alerting them to facts that might bring their attention to her – as being a sister to Gavroche, who was clearly loved by them all would have done.  
But Éponine had done things since then. She had given promises and taken sides. No one needed Gavroche to entangle her in the dealings in Café Musain anymore. It was much too late for this…  
Still…  
“Why’d you do that?”  
“Why’d you join?” her brother gave back and looked at her, his clear eyes wide open and curious, only the slightest shade of mockery coloring his expression.  
Beyond her anger, Éponine realized that this was a valid question, especially given the conversation they had had yesterday. It had drifted on such a callous note.  
But this was her brother. Her brother who was as merry as a bird; her brother, who was free as the wind rustling through the streets of Paris. Her brother who had abandoned them as soon as he could, ran away leaving her and Azelma to fend for themselves.  
Her and Azelma, who had been older than him, but loved by their mother, while Gavroche was just a cry on the sidelines, nothing to be paid attention to. Much like Cosette, when she had still been with them.  
Cosette was cowered in submission and finally rescued.  
Gavroche rescued himself and left Azelma and Éponine to complete the downwards spiral that her parents had started to take.  
Éponine wondered if his deed had not been abandonment, but an attempt of saving his life. That was something she could respect.  
The thought prompted her to an honest answer.  
“Not so sure, actually”, she confessed. “But I don’t really have much to lose, have I?”  
Unwillingly, her eyes went to Marius’ back, as the young student strode to the edge of the garden, all remnants of tiredness chased away by his quest to reach Rue Plumet. His slender form was known to her like the back of her hand, the broad shoulders, the carefully trimmed hair, hands with long fingers that had never seen much work or hardship – until recently, that is, but this still had not left its mark.  
She had lost him, she knew.  
It had not cut the hold he had on her in the least, though.  
“You’re much too dark, sister mine”, Gavroche said fondly and skipped over some stones in a curiously distracted gesture, and unwillingly, Éponine remembered her thoughts about Enjolras last night, when he first had extended an offer to entangle her in the dealings of the revolutionaries.  
He’s a boy of summer. I could use a little sun.  
Or the warm glow of candlelight, excitement and companionship. The last hours in the Café Musain had been exciting and exhausting – Éponine guessed that the only reason she was still on her feet was, that there had been literally no time for her to get tired. However, while sorting out the face of their attacker together with Feuilly – which had been a very productive experience given his skill and gentle nature, as well as her good memory – and while spontaneously helping Courfeyrac organizing the stream of questions and visitors and reports, she had felt as useful as she hadn’t had in a long time.  
Éponine wondered if this was what summer would feel like.  
“Maybe that’s why”, she therefore answered as they left the Jardin du Luxembourg, and Gavroche grinned broadly.  
“You’ve done a lot more stupid for a lot more stupid reasons”, he brotherly informed her and looked pointedly to Marius, who had halted at the next crossroads, looking to the Thénardier siblings and their younger comrade to catch up.  
“Are you coming?”

Rue Plumet was still the idyll she remembered from having been here last time, from having cowered into a niche opposite of the house with the intricately woven gate and its overgrown beauty.  
The greenish light of early day had waxed into a full morning sun hanging in a brilliantly blue sky, only a few number of clouds passing between like feathers, carefree and light.  
The street was still silent in this early hour. They had encountered several maids on their way to the market in coming here, baskets under their arms as they purposefully strode along, but everyone in Rue Plumet who was bound to have business outside this morning was either not yet about or had left earlier.  
Éponine appreciated this. It had been difficult enough not to attract attention when she had been on her own with Marius. Now, with Gavroche and Sylvain into the bargain, it was hardly possible.  
The Fauchelevent residence seemed to still be asleep as well, windows and blinds closed, the garden silent except for the singing birds, but Marius was not so easily cowered and, standing at the entry, he peered through the iron gate and resigned himself to wait.  
Éponine, who did not want to watch this, turned around to Gavroche and Sylvain. The latter had curled up right where he sat down, tiredness overtaking as he fell asleep on the streets, but Gavroche was holding up nicely, looking at his sister with weary eyes, but alert.  
“So”, he began, “what’d we do about that father of ours?”  
Éponine frowned.  
“Well, like I said. Since I’ve been to the prison, I know where they are. I’ve been admitted once, and I think I can do it again if I plan it well. It just needs an amount of thought.”  
“I’ve passed La Force yesterday”, Gavroche explained, wiggling his feet as he watched Marius standing in front of the gate. “They’re redoing the roof. We’re lucky.”  
Éponine nodded. She had remarked that as well, in the morning with Enjolras. A manifold of ladders and paths led over part of the roof and down into the streets. This made the inner courtyards of the prison significantly more accessible from the outside and was a stroke of luck that made their endeavor almost feasible.  
“So over the roofs it is”, she concluded. “Remains the question about how we bring them out of their cells.”  
Gavroche chewed his lips thoughtfully.  
“Rope and a tool to break the bars”, he reiterated what they had already spoken about the day before. “That at least.”  
“It needs to be brought inside then, sometime tomorrow”, Éponine mused. “Which is risky.”  
“We could bring it up by night”, her brother considered and fiddled thoughtfully with the arms of his coat. “Then they open the bars and go out.”  
“But these things take time”, Éponine contradicted. Marius was wrapping his fingers around the bars, trying to get a closer look, and, when failing, took to pacing alongside the gate. He had the air of a man nervous, a man torn. She had no idea how to help him.  
“You’ll need to talk to him again”, Gavroche reminded her and brought her out of her reverie. “Find out when the watches are and that sort of thing. ‘M sure they know it by now.”  
That was something that Éponine had no doubt of. Come what may, her father shared the same observant nature that all his children had inherited and learnt to put to good use. There was not much that escaped him, and he listed and noted the comings and goings around him without any notable effort.  
He did not always put his observations to good use, though.  
Éponine intended to make sure that this time, he would.  
“Sure”, she answered and shrugged slightly. “Can do that…”, she suppressed a yawn, “…after I sleep like a log. If not…”  
Running a hand through her hair she pondered alternatives for a moment.  
“One could always try to bring some more stuff to them. Food. Wine. We could hide a rasp in a bottle of wine. I’ve seen loads of people with goods for the prisoners outside La Force.”  
Gavroche shook his head. He did obviously not like the idea.  
“That’s really dangerous, ‘Ponine”, he reminded her. “If that goes ill you don’t see the sun for the next year.”  
She had to agree with her brother on that, but it did not necessarily waver her convictions of what needed to be done.  
“If we run over the rooftops in a group of six that may have the same result”, she reminded him. “The less people we have to bring, the better.”  
“For the rope, you could be fine”, Gavroche took up her trail of thought. “Maybe you can hide it in some clothes. It’s not heavy, doesn’t clink…”  
“I was not thinking of bringing a real rope”, Éponine contradicted. “I thought of bringing in a couple of linen shirts, old but not the worst quality. That would not attract so much suspicion, if I bring enough for the four of them. Then they can tear it apart and knot it together.”  
Gavroche seemed to like the idea, judging from how his grin widened.  
“Love that ‘un”, he said. “Although I could’ve nicked some of the ropes from the docks, we’ve done that for the ‘unes we use to go down the elephant.”  
Éponine shook her head.  
“That would be more difficult again to bring in, wouldn’t it?”  
Gavroche picked up a pebble and threw it across the street, watching as it toppled until it lay right between them and Marius, to join the countless others and become, once more, nothing out of the ordinary.  
“Yeah”, he concurred. “So you do the bringing and me’ll do the climbing. Just don’t tell Courfeyrac. He’ll worry ‘imself mad over nothin’.”  
Éponine gave her brother a side glance.  
“Got yourself quite a family there, little brother.”  
“Beats ours.” Gavroche was certainly not one to beat around the bush. “Which is not hard, of course.”  
Éponine smiled sadly. That was certainly poignantly true and actually something they could agree on.  
“Why are you helping them, then?” she asked, none the less.  
Gavroche shook his head and grinned.  
“Not helping them. Helping you.” Despite his laugh there was a certain seriousness in his voice. “I’ve never minded that. Helping you or ‘Zelma, that is.”  
To some extent, Éponine had to admit that was true. Gavroche had left the Thénardiers as soon as he was even remotely able to fend for himself, but he had come back, on occasion, on what he called his visits. He had been civil to his parents then, but outright friendly to Éponine and Azelma – at least, as Éponine remembered, until she picked a fight with him and Azelma had in general stopped speaking to him for fear of displeasing their father.  
He had taken it in his stride when he left again, for the streets that had become his home and kingdom.  
“Gonna ask her to help”, Éponine said, taking up the thread of her thoughts again. “An extra hand wouldn’t hurt.”  
Her brother pondered this for a moment.  
“She’s still the same as always?”  
“Azelma’s Azelma”, Éponine responded with a shrug. “People don’t change, that way. They grow and learn, but stay the same deep down. But she’ll help. I’ll look out for her.”  
“Yeah, I know”, Gavroche replied. “Always done that.”  
Éponine was not sure if she was scolded. Her brother was right, though. Truth was, being a child, she had been overwhelmed with the duty of taking care of both brother and sister, as the life and family she had known slowly fell apart. She had taken a leaf out of her mother’s book then, turning towards her beloved sister, while Gavroche fell through the cracks.  
Not something she was proud of. But something that had happened.  
Thoughtfully, Éponine turned her gaze back to the young baron’s son, who was still standing at the gates. There was a slight dejection to his shoulders that had not been there before, not in the brawl of the café, and not when they arrived here. But the house in Rue Plumet was still silent and barred.  
“I wonder how long he’ll wait”, Éponine said, completely at odds with the discussion they had had before, and Gavroche followed her gaze and sighed.  
“Tell you what”, he proposed. “I’m gonna have a look, while he’s moping. Keep him from doing something stupid, all right?” A short gaze towards Sylvain showed that the boy was still sleeping soundly, despite his uncomfortable resting place on the pavement. “And have an eye on the littl’un, will ya?”  
Éponine nodded, and Gavroche pulled himself to his feet, and with quick steps wandered off to the next crossing, a house across from number 55, to find a way into the mansion without having to climb the fence.  
The gamine remained seated for a moment, gathering her courage. She was tired and overwrought, having slept little the night before and not at all the last one, and the rush of events finally started to catch up with her.  
The situation felt surreal. She had been here several times, first on her own, then leading Marius, and then in the end just following him for the sake of his company, but now the street looked somehow subtly different, without her being able to place the exact difference.  
She was too tired to feel despaired.  
Which obviously did not go for Marius. Now, he had leaned against one of the pillars framing the iron gate, leaning his head against the cool stone and looking blankly out into the streets. He was keeping his face neutral, but she could see the dejection in his eyes and posture, the disappointment of not seeing Cosette evident in his whole manner.  
Éponine’s heart went out to him, wishing she knew a way to help him, foolish as she was.  
And again, the moth went to the flame to try and burn herself thoroughly and utterly.

“She’s not responding”, he said, unhappily, looking at the bellstring that would announce visitors to those inside. He had not pulled it at first – hoping that Cosette would come to the garden without him having to alert her father – but finally he had lost patience and taken to ringing. He would rather speak with Fauchelevent and probably have the opportunity to exchange a few words with his beloved than not see her at all.  
What would he do if something had happened to her, courtesy of the assassin that he had led to her himself?  
Thank heavens for Éponine, who stepped up to him just as his thoughts were running wild, calling him out of his blackest reverie by her mere presence. She had the capability of doing that. It had been a beautiful quality, especially in those first, dark months of independence of his.  
She responded to his words with a frown, looking up at the closed blinds.  
“She is bourgeois. They all are. Would they probably get up late? Just because they can?”  
Marius pondered this for a moment and then shrugged.  
“To be honest, I have no idea what she does during the day… I’ve seen her walking the gardens, I’ve seen her giving alms… but I wouldn’t know when she normally gets up.”  
There was so little he knew about her, he realized with a flash. So little he knew. So little it mattered. Except of course in this moment, where he was desperately trying to reach her.  
“Well…”, Éponine continued, “if you don’t know, how should I?” She was fingering the iron gate with the fiddling unrest that she was capable of. “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”  
It sounded like the hollow reassurance that it certainly was, but Marius appreciated the effort none the less. She had agreed to accompany him, and she usually followed through with what she promised. She had been a good friend for him, for so long.  
“I really appreciate that you went here with me”, Marius said, knowing that he was getting deeper and deeper into her debt. It was not the worst of debts that he had ever been in, but still he would have her know that he was aware. “You must be very tired.”  
She flashed him a quick gaze, dark eyes unreadable, before she turned back to watching the house, her smile slightly pale.  
“I am, yes”, she confessed. “And the boys even more. They need to sleep, Monsieur Marius… and so do you.”  
“How could I be able to sleep if I am not sure if she is safe?”  
Éponine shrugged, her face neutral and closed. She must have been very tired.  
“Wouldn’t know, Monsieur”, she said, her voice soft and friendly despite her forbidding face. “You just close your eyes and start to dream…” She made it sound so easy. But then she had probably never been in love as he had.  
“I’d dream of her, that much is certain”, Marius gave back. The thought of sleep was indeed becoming more alluring by the minute, despite his worries, despite Cosette being unaccounted for. But he was a stronger man than that.  
Until Gavroche appeared on the other side of the fence.  
“They’re gone.”  
Incredulously, Marius stared at the gamin who had mysteriously appeared in the garden, looking up with a solemn expression that he rarely displayed. And yet, he could not believe what he had heard.  
“What?”  
Gavroche shook his head.  
“They’re gone. House is deserted and empty.”  
Marius pushed aside any thought of how the boy might have acquired that particular piece of information. It was so very easy to forget that he was so much more than just the small friend of theirs, who never seemed to feel a care in the world.  
Which, on the whole, was probably also splendidly untrue.  
“What?” he could not help repeating, louder, and more incredulously. His thoughts were racing.  
There had been no indication of that yesterday, so Cosette having vanished must have been a result of the events of yesterday; of the assassin arriving at the house, of him intruding into the Fauchelevent grounds.  
He had gathered from watching them in the Jardin du Luxembourg that they were a very private family. They kept to themselves mostly, seemed to know few of those who strolled along the same ways they did. Maybe his intrusion alone had been enough to chase them away.  
But so quickly?  
After having left his grandfather’s home, Marius felt himself to have become some sort of expert in the subtle art of quick escapes from previously more comfortable lodgings, and as unplanned as his had been, it had also proven quite disastrous in the beginning.  
So where was she now? And was she facing the same perils and hardships of being thrown into the more predatory parts of the world? Or had this been something long in coming, triggered now or brought about more quickly?  
Where was she…?  
“Oi, look!” Gavroche, relatively unfazed, pointed towards the side of the gate where between branches of ivy a slip of white could be seen. Without hesitation, Marius snatched up the object, pushing aside vegetation impatiently.  
It was a small letter, hardly larger than his palm, fixed and hidden well beneath the protective branches, and Marius freed it carefully, reverently, until he held in his hand the paper, a single slip, folded twice and his name, with wide, practiced, and definitely female arcs and bows.  
Marius Pontmercy.

 

When Éponine finally reached home, she was tired enough to collapse on the spot, so tired, that she did not even take the opportunity to accompany Marius on his way to the attic apartment that he lived in. She loved being there, loved being in his company, having him all to herself, but it would not be all to herself today because of Gavroche and Sylvain. And to be honest, she was not sure if she felt up to mounting another four stories of stairs.  
So she bid them goodbye at the entrance to the Thénardier flat and entered on tiptoes, as not to awake anyone inside the apartment.  
She arrived at home without any newly earned money. That would not bring a warm welcome, and Éponine felt much too exhausted to take up a second discussion with her mother now.  
She was in luck however, and more than that, for her caution was unwarranted. When she entered, the sour stench of cheap spirits gave her welcome, and she saw her mother on her cot by the hearth, snoring deeply, surrounded by what remained of the stocks of spirits that her father had harbored.  
Éponine hesitated for a moment, watching the plump, crude figure, the puffy visage, tried to sort out her emotions and failed miserably.  
She felt sorry for her mother, sitting here all alone, having waited for the return of her husband in vain. Éponine understood loneliness and despair, and more than that she understood the dread that lay in being caught instead of circumstances than acting herself.  
The thought gave her pause for a moment, and with a blinding flash of intuition she realized that she was looking at the reason that she had been searching all along.  
Enjolras had given her the opportunity to act. He had opened a door beyond which there might just be a possibility for her to shape her own way instead of being tossed and turned by storms and tides.  
He believed that she could be master of her own destiny. He really and truly did.  
The thought was so ludicrous that she immediately took a liking to it. In the moment that she watched her mother, a shadow of what she had been in her prime, Éponine remembered all those words she had heard in the vicinity of Marius’ friends. All those thoughts of liberty, of the rights of man, and from this angle it made sense, in a warped sound of way.  
Yes, they were trying to do something for them – they had printed the perils and woes of her class onto their banners – but it was more than that. They wanted them to be able to do something for themselves. They wanted to free them, yes. But most of all, they wanted them to be free.  
The revelation was breathtaking.  
And looking at her mother, Éponine realized that she did not want to end this way. More than that still – she did not have to end this way. The thought made her smile sadly, as if by her thoughts alone she had opened a chasm between her and her mother, broad and wide as the Seine and impossible to cross.  
Yet still, on the whole she felt that she was able to breathe more freely.  
And as she silently slipped into the tiny room she shared with Azelma, there was a tiny smile on her face.  
Her sister, as always, had curled up on the far side of the cot, half burying herself into the cold wall as she was always prone to do.  
Éponine had heard complaints – of others, mostly – that sharing a bed with a sibling produced quarrels about space and blankets, but that never happened with Azelma. She always seemed to try to take up as little space as humanly possible, and tiny thing that she was, she succeeded pretty well.  
None the less she slept lightly, and when Éponine, tired to her bones and her still wounded shoulder aching (Combeferre had taken another look at it in the evening and proclaimed it on the mend, but it still hurt), lay down next to her, she turned carefully, hair tousled, and eyes only half open.  
“Ponine?” she asked sleepily, and her voice was warm with sleep and sounded hardly like her. “I was dreaming…”  
Azelma and her dreams…  
After Cosette had left and things turned ill for the Thénardiers, she had almost taken up the role of the missing girl when it came to losing her head into worlds far away. Both of Éponine and Azelma had taken it ill, when they had had to sell their books, but Azelma had cried for weeks, until Éponine had started telling her stories in the evening.  
They had both outgrown it in the end.  
The sisters had never spoken of it, but Éponine guessed that this was Azelma’s way of dealing with their decline. While Éponine had turned towards bitterness and cunning, her younger and more timid sister had retreated into herself.  
She did not begrudge her that escape all too often.  
“Sleep, Azelma”, she counseled, straightening out a few strands from her face. “I need to sleep as well. I’m so tired…”  
“Maman was angry”, Azelma conveyed, already half asleep, and Éponine sighed softly.  
“I know, ‘Zelma.” And then, as an afterthought, “Stay here when you wake, will you? I need you to do something tomorrow.”  
“Mmmh”, her sister responded softly, and Éponine was not sure if she had registered, what she had said, but decided not to rouse her from her dreams again and surrendered to her own.

 

 


	24. Divided we|ll fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it becomes clear, that in no venture, there is perfect unity in cause and purpose...

**Chapter 23: Divided we’ll fall**   
_"The universe is driven by the complex interaction between three ingredients: matter, energy, and enlightened self-interest."_

When they met in the morning, beneath an old, gnarled oak tree instead of the church, it was clear that tiredness and strain had caught up with both of them in their own manner.  
Yet, the Friend had been adamant in his summoning, and the commands of the Friend were not to be ignored. Of course the Hound knew fairly well why he had been summoned, and he did not appreciate it.  
“Where were you?”  
In his tiredness, the voice of the Friend was still calm and warm, yet the Hound was not to be deceived. They were all dangerous in their own right and the Friend was seriously displeased.  
“About”, he answered. The Friend raised a brow, slightly ironic, and the smile around his mouth was deceptively mild.  
“About Boulevard de l’Hôpital?”  
That was of course part of the truth. Not the whole of it, but still it was a starting point. Yet, the Hound felt not inclined to be interrogated and gave only a minuscule shrug in response. He knew what the Friend was aiming at, but he also knew that the Friend would not understand. His brother knew nothing of the hunt as the Hound practiced it – merciless, relentless and powerful, a stronger drug than absinthe could ever be, a rush of smells and sights, of fear and power that only a predator can understand.  
The smell of the girl lingered since the morning in the market, like a trail that was calling and beckoning him with vehemence.  
Irresistible.  
“And about Place St. Michel.” The second statement was not a question, and again the Hound felt no inclination to agree or disagree. It was obvious that the Friend knew. “You have been seen”, he continued, calmly, the reprimand veiled in layers and layers of friendliness.  
“So?” the Hound finally asked.

“Your task was to lie low.”

“I did.”  
“You were seen”, the Friend reiterated, and the Hound thought this ridiculous, because of course he had been seen, but to those who had seen him, he had just been a passer-by, no one to pay any attention to. This was what the Friend would not understand.  
“So what?”  
The Friend looked up to him, and the Hound was not fooled by the warm, open exterior. The eyes of the man were the eyes of a murderer, of a man who had killed in cold blood. The Friend was as dangerous as any of them. Maybe more, because his true nature was hidden down so deep.  
There was a threat lying in his eyes, an unmistakable, cold, iron threat.  
“You”, he said, “will follow the commands that you are given. Your decisions on who you track are not your own any more. You swore an oath. Do not forget this.”  
The Hound nodded, knowing his response to be a lie. He swore an oath to their brotherhood, yes, as part of the bargain long ago. But the oath to his strange and powerful nature was of a much older and stronger kind.  
He could feel her scent, and it was much too overwhelming to be ignored.  
And at the end of the day, he was what he was.

 

As Inspector Javert arrived at La Préfécture in the morning, he had no inclination of spending any time in the vast entry hall of the building.  
There was no such thing as calm to this place. Daytime belonged to the friends and relatives of both victims and criminals, to their petty demands and hustles, getting under foot of solid policing work. Nighttime was the hour of the criminals themselves, being dragged into the building by the unwavering force of the law.  
The early morning, as on this day, was in-between of those words.  
Javert paid no heed to the wails of a group of prostitutes, who, in one corner of the room, were disciplined by a few members of the National Guard – he did notice that the Guard actually had no business being here, at the headquarters of the municipal police – and ignored as well the bourgeois looking man that, hat in his hand, waited anxiously at the well-guarded door that led further into the building.  
If the man had intended to speak to him, he was to be severely disappointed – Javert had no inclination for idle chat, and today even less than on any other day – and his forbidding face told the visitor so in no uncertain words.  
In long years of habit, he had acquired a certain experience in crossing the pandemonium of this place unscathed.  
Javert crossed the door, unhindered by the guards, and proceeded into the corridors and stairways of the administration, passed by the interrogation rooms on the left and climbed up to the third floor, where behind another set of doors and corridors his own personal kingdom was located.  
It was a luxury well deserved, this small room inside la Préfécture, an honor attributed only to very few members of the police. Javert remembered well, when he had still been Inspector under the commissioner in La Salpetrie, where he had had no place to work from but his own, shabby dwelling, clients, informants, complainers drifting in and out at any hour.  
Being appointed to the Prefect directly six years ago had improved this situation vastly.  
He was given this small room he was still occupying to this day, and three years ago, he had even been allowed an aide who helped sorting out the information and dealing with the more disagreeable tasks of the paperwork involved in the dealings of an inspector.  
Javert preferred to be an early riser, but most days, Giubet was in before him, and today was no exception. He recognized the clean, but slightly worn coat that hung neatly on the stand in the corridor and found the man only moments after, standing in his office sorting notes and papers into various folders.  
Giubet was a small man with the face of a mouse and an Italian heritage a few generations back. Like Javert, he had come from humble beginnings and raised himself, though not as far as Javert, through hard work and dedication. Unlike Javert, he had a family and a large stall of children to feed, but since the man was efficient and in general useful Javert had seen to it that he was decently paid and therefore fully focused on his work.  
“Good morning, Monsieur L’Inspecteur”, Giubet greeted him with his usual, even tones. He was a few years younger than Javert, though not much, and his brown hair, bound at his neck by a black ribbon in a style that seemed slightly at odds with the current fashion, showed first streaks of grey.  
Giubet was old-fashioned in everything he did, starting from his hairstyle, which was complimented by a simple waistcoat of slightly unpopular cut, to his obvious disdain when it came to the more raucous ways of behavior of his own class.  
Javert gave his aide a curt nod and placed his own jacket outside the room before entering the small dwelling that had been the center of his life for the better part of six years.  
On his desk – meticulously clean and orderly – two different folders had been placed, clearly marked in Giubet’s accurate writing.  
“Virille”, the first one read, “Devereux” the second. The folder on the Virille brothers was significantly thicker, given that the murder had been watched by many and descriptions had been fairly concise.  
There was much less on Marcel Devereux.  
“I am not yet fully finished with the information gathered in Issy”, Giubet informed Javert without looking up from his task – which might be considered impolite, but after three years the inspector was inclined to overlook these deficiencies in favor of the undisputable efficiency of the man. “I apologize for this. It will only take a few minutes.”  
“Take your time”, Javert answered curtly, knowing it would be worth it, when a sudden thought struck him and he refrained from sitting down as he had intended to do. Frowning he turned back to Giubet, who was ordering the various notes and writings carefully. “Wait a minute. What about Rue d’Olivel?”  
His aide hesitated for a moment before he ceased his activity and lifted his head to gaze at his superior officer.  
“The folders had not arrived”, he explained. “I have investigated, but I have been told only that you would be informed of the procedure.”  
Javert could feel a brow climbing, part in irony, part in suspicion. Unbidden, he remembered the discussion he had had with the commander of La Force yesterday, and the uneasy sentiment that had remained even after he left the prison.  
Javert, in long years of policing, had learned to trust his instincts.  
From the moment he had heard of the incident, he had been certain that it was interlinked with the events in Issy, at the Barriere du Maine and in Saint Antoine. While the involvement of the robbers who were currently in La Force remained unclear, the combination of evidence was almost beautifully consistent.  
In all four places, death had hit those, who were at odds with the current reigning government. Deveraux, the Virilles and the students in Issy were well-known centers of unrest and dissatisfaction with the establishment. If Paris was a powder keg, these places were likely to be the ones where the spark would light.  
As to the de Cambouts – well, everyone with eyes, the capability to read and the money to buy an edition of Le Globe could guess their affiliations.  
It was on the whole odd, that he had heard nothing from Saint Michel. If Javert had been responsible for this sort of operation – and he allowed himself a silent moment of thanks that he was not, because for all the disdain that he harbored for those deceased and wounded in this venture, he was still certain that this procedure did not follow the rules of the law – this would have been one of his centers of attention.  
Rabble-rousers they all were.

But that Enjolras boy was well and truly dangerous.  
Which immediately prompted the question why he had visited the prisoners from the Rue d’Olivel incident.  
Some of which had gone missing.  
Even looking at the broken shards of the picture Javert was certain these events were interlinked. The missing Rue d’Olivel file was not a good sign.  
However, before he could come to a decision as to what to do with respect to this curious discrepancy, he was summoned to appear without any delay in front of the Prefect of the Paris police.

Henri Gisquet was a man in his forties, with white hair, that, still strong, was neatly cut around his face to reflect an image of dignity. Dark, clever eyes were sunken deep, hidden under bushy eyebrows that seemed to be set in an expression of constant scowling, for there was much to scowl at in the Paris of these days.  
He had been in the position of Prefect for more the better part of a year and seemed to be here to stay, which – as far as Javert was concerned – was a welcome relief after years of inconstancy, where political favor and flimsy allegiances had governed the appointment of Prefects practically by the week. Gisquet, on the other hand, had proven to be an efficient and zealous Prefect, with a real obligation both towards the law and the government, humorless and brave, intelligent and relentless – in short, a man after Javert’s own heart.  
The inspector felt no anxiousness, just a mild curiosity, as he followed the summons immediately, redressing his coat and hat, only to remove the latter as he was admitted into Gisquet’s office, bowing in a befitting gesture of submission.  
“Monsieur le Préfet”, he saluted.  
Gisquet sat behind a large Queen Anne table, stocks of papers neatly arranged, and did not get up at the entry of Javert, but he dignified the inspector with a gracious nod and an invitation to sit.  
Javert followed, placing his hat on the table slightly to the side and waited patiently to be spoken to.  
As he expected, Gisquet wasted no time.  
“Good morning Inspector. First, let me thank you for joining me here so quickly.”  
Javert did not feel inclined to comment on a matter of course, but nodded for good measure and as to not put the Prefect off. Gisquet however continued without even noting his reaction. “May I ask - what is your current course of investigation, Inspector?”  
Javert frowned slightly. He would have assumed that Gisquet knew. There were not so many investigators, who were placed directly under the general Paris municipal authorities. Five, to be precise.  
“I have been charged”, he answered none the less, “with the investigation of the murders and attempted murders of two days ago, and any possible interlinking between them.”  
Gisquet nodded soberly.  
“The attacks on the young troublemakers, indeed.”  
Javert nodded in confirmation.  
“I have been told”, Gisquet continued, calmly, “that you have visited La Force yesterday as well, to speak to certain individuals that have been captured in an attempt of burglary in the Rue d’Olivel the night before.”  
Javert suppressed a sigh. When he had spoken to the Commander of La Force, he had been unable to shake the nagging suspicion that this conversation would not have been the last that he saw of the matter. The men of importance and standing in this city were all interlinked in their own, unfathomable web of opinions, positions and dependencies. He should have guessed that the Commander would have means of reaching Gisquet.  
There was no denying it, at least.  
“That is correct”, he confirmed, and Gisquet nodded again.  
“Do I correctly assume that you suspect a connection?”  
Javert nodded.  
“Indeed, you do, Monsieur le Préfet. In fact, there are several…”, but Gisquet did not allow him to finish. Instead, he intercepted his wording and his voice, while fairly casual before, carried an edge to it that was a clear warning to Javert.  
“There is not.”  
Javert blinked twice to regain his footing. The ferociousness of the answer surprised him, to say the least.  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“There is no connection”, Gisquet reiterated in his precise diction, syllable by careful syllable, “between the Rue d’Olivel incident and the murder of students the day before.”  
“Monsieur, with all due respect”, Javert began, wondering why it was that Gisquet was piping the same tune that the Commander had done, and in a slightly different key. “I am aware that there are some doubts – the different time of the incident, the presumed burglars, whose role is as of now severely unsolved… but on the whole, one might consider that this attack has been directed at the heart and soul of Le Globe, and about the affiliation of this newspaper there can be no doubt.”  
Gisquet let this statement hang for a moment, his gaze wandering to something outside his window. He was placing his fingers together and his face was devoid of any expression.  
“You seem to be under the misconception, Inspector”, he began in a tone still more frigid than it had been before, “that I am discussing this case with you. I assure you, you are mistaken.”  
Javert frowned.  
“Monsieur le Préfet?”  
“The murder of Alexandre de Cambout”, Gisquet repeated in other words, and now he turned his gaze back to Javert as if to further emphasize his words, “has nothing to do with the attacks on the students. Therefore, since I estimate you will already be sufficiently busy with the latter cases, I have taken this burden off your shoulders and relieved you of this case, seen as it will probably require a different line of observation.”  
Javert stared at his superior with a mixture of incredulity and annoyance. Up until today he had estimated Henri Gisquet to be a man of sense and character, a good Prefect of Paris, efficient and steadfast, not easily cowered and dedicated to upholding the law.  
The current situation, however, shed some doubt on this previous impression.  
While he was still pondering things to reply, Gisquet continued, in his precise, accurate tones.  
“There was no such person present as a dwarf. The number of burglars in the house amounted to three, and not a single person more. I suggest, you do not spread any other misconception you may have heard from dubious sources.”  
Javert shook his head. He had never been intimidated when it came to what was right. Not by people like Monsieur Madeleine, and likewise not by Gisquet.  
“I would not call the sources so dubious”, Javert answered. “There have been a number of members of police, a national guard at La Force and the statements of the three thugs, all pointing towards the same item. Even the statement that Hélène de Cambout made yesterday confirms the essentials.”  
“Of course it does”, Gisquet said, as if explaining himself to a particularly annoying child. “Yet, like I told you, they are false.”  
Javert leaned forward in his chair, fixating the man before him with his gaze.  
“You say that all of them are in the wrong?”  
“I say this indeed”, Gisquet answered. “With vehemence, in fact. And you should say so, too.”  
Javert leaned back and took his hat back in a slightly fidgeting gesture. The situation was becoming very uncomfortable indeed.  
“The truth is the truth”, he said, despite everything. “It does not follow words, either yours or mine.”  
The flash of anger at insubordination in Gisquet’s eyes had been predictable but unavoidable. His voice turned icy cold.  
“Inspector”, he began, “I will make things easy for you. I have given you a direct command. Are you or are you not capable of fulfilling this?”  
There were worlds hanging in this room between them and Javert once more marveled at the sorry mess he found himself in and that seemed to get worse with every minute he concerned himself with it. The more he was being discouraged by superiors both official and inofficial, the less he could shake the suspicion that he was moving on the outer rims of a political game that was outside his understanding or scope of work.  
Yet, Javert had sworn an oath to find truths.  
But how could he do so if he was dismissed – even dishonorably – from the service he was currently fulfilling?  
A sorry mess; no truer words had ever been spoken.  
Rage was warring with curiosity and a deep, profound annoyance, but in the end Javert’s composure won over and he decided to bend to resist another day.  
In a swift movement he got up.  
“If you will excuse me, Monsieur le Préfet”, he said, taking a bow that was just a trifle too low to be fitting for the situation. “I have three cases of murder and two of attempted murder on my desk which will require my immediate attention.”  
Gisquet gave him a hard stare, then nodded.  
“I wish you luck in your inquiries, Monsieur. And I hope you will find the culprits soon. Dismissed.”  
Javert replaced his hat onto his head.  
“I will, Monsieur le Préfet”, he confirmed neutrally and turned to leave the office, silently completing the sentence that he had started.  
I will get to the bottom of this…

 

There was not much sleep to be had that night.  
Marc Lamarin had invited Sébastien and Robert Velu, a young medical student in his second year in Paris, to stay at his own, relatively comfortable lodgings, but arriving there a note that had been slipped under the door made any thought of sleep impossible.  
The scrawl was unmistakeably Jacques Morier’s, if more unsteady than they were used to, which was quite understandable given the man’s condition.  
Come when you can. It’s Armand.  
Of course there had been no question of sleep afterwards, and the three students had turned on the spot, directing their steps to the Necker as quickly as they could.  
The hour was still early, but they were admitted, due to some quick talking on Robert’s part – his studies had made him familiar with the Necker already – and a few moments later they were rushing down the corridors to reach the room that Armand had been placed in.  
Despite the time, the chamber was fairly crowded already. Three more of their comrades had apparently received similar messages and so a major part of the Cougourde met again, less than an hour after having scattered from the assembly at the Café Musain.  
The doctor that they had seen attending to their friends was there as well, but he had stepped back from the bed and took up a monitoring post somewhere close to Marie, the nurse that was apparently again on duty this morning.  
Sylvain was sitting in a chair, his hurt leg propped up on another one, and even Jacques had dragged himself out of his bed, unwise as this might be, his eyes still much too bright in a telltale sign of fever. Two of their comrades were hovering by his side, and given the fact that Lamarin spied traces of blood on their clothing that matched the spot coming from the wound in Jacques chest, that had apparently reopened, they had probably helped him move over here.  
While Armand was certainly the reason for all being here, Jacques was the center of it, his presence even in weakness demanding a part of the attention of all those present. He had the air of a general, despite his current condition, a center of all that was going around him, both monopolizing and commanding. He seemed oblivious to this, watching the young nobleman with an expressionless face in which only the slightest of frowns allowed to judge that he was in fact not indifferent, but fighting for composure.  
For Armand, that much was certain, was dying.  
Marc Lamarin exchanged a gaze with Robert and let his regard then slip towards the doctor, not wanting to disturb the somber silence in the room. The young medical student picked up on his intent, nodded and went to the older man to converse in silent tones on the condition their friend was in.  
Not, that it was not obvious.  
Armand was shaking with fever and deathly pale, lying in bed and looking as if he had already started to fade.  
Normally, he was a cheerful man, with brown curls that were widely called romantic, a man of charm and companionable ease, and what he was lacking in severity, he made up with enthusiasm.  
Randomly, Marc remembered that he had pined after a woman going by the impossible name of Celestine – the heavenly one, as Armand had sighed; that he was the son of a nobleman who had distinctly not appreciated his son’s opinions, and as a consequence, Armand was often out of money.  
He was closer to Jacques than to Joseph – this was a thing that mattered in the Cougourde – and if anyone would have consulted Marc Lamarin on the subject, he was out of their numbers the one who least deserved to die.  
His comrades were crowding around the bed and their leader likewise, but the scenery struck Marc as odd. It had the air of a spectacle, of simple watching without participating. One look into the faces of his comrades proved the contrary of course, the signs of distress more than evident and still, he tried to imagine how a similar scene would have played out, had one of the Friends of the ABC been struck down as Armand had and were now standing on the threshold of death.  
That, if nothing else, made him approach the struggling man on the bed.  
Armand’s breathing was labored and just like during their last visit he seemed to take no note of their presence whatsoever. Carefully, Lamarin lowered himself to sit on the bed to get a clearer view at the fight of their comrade. His chest was tightening in pain at seeing Armand so, and at the anticipation of what he might be forced to witness.  
As of now, Marc Lamarin had never seen anyone die.  
Yet he felt sorry for the man who, in a room full of his friends, still was somehow alone.  
Armand responded to the shifting of the mattress with a weak, painful moan and a flutter of his eyelashes that had Lamarin freeze for a moment, uncertain of how to proceed.  
He knew that there were certain protocols to a situation like this, and as a last fallback line in dubious situations, he went back to the rules of etiquette that he had been taught in his youth.  
Careful, hoping not to inflict any more unnecessary pain to his dying comrade, he took Armand’s cold, clammy fingers, wondering if the gesture came too late to be of any comfort to the man.  
It did not, however, because some of the pressure he gave was returned, a weak tightening of the fingers only, and still the first response he had seen from the man. Encouraged, Lamarin bowed forward and ran his hand over Armand’s sweat covered forehead, wiping away clammy locks that had stuck to the skin.  
“Rest easy, my friend”, he said in what he hoped was a calming manner. His voice was more or less steady at least – a grace in itself though he had no idea how he managed it.  
Armand was burning up, and Lamarin, though he had no medical experience to speak of, knew that the end was near. He felt the bed shift again and saw that Sébastien had taken up his example and placed himself on Armand’s other side.  
Silently they sat, as moments passed, and Armand stubbornly clung to life for another heartbeat, another breath, another minute.  
The Cougourde watched and waited in silence.  
Eventually Robert stepped up to Lamarin, having finished his conversation with the doctor and only confirmed what Marc already knew. There was nothing to be done – the infection from the stomach wound had spread throughout his body and would kill Armand, in a minute, in an hour, maybe in a day if he were particularly strong – but the doctor doubted it. The death sentence was spoken, and all that remained was to wait for the end to happen, and for him to be not alone.  
Marie brought another bowl of water, and Lamarin took it upon himself to softly brush the cool liquid over Armand’s face, soothing away the droplets of sweat, trying to bring some minuscule relief within the agony that he must certainly feel.  
Daybreak turned into mid-morning that way, with hardly any conversation and somber waiting.  
It was Lamarin, whose eyes never left Armand’s face as time passed by, who realized that the dying nobleman’s lips were moving slowly as if he were trying to speak to them.  
Exchanging a quick gaze with Sébastien he understood that his comrade had seen it as well, but the polytechnic student motioned Lamarin to bow forward to catch the words that Armand was whispering with all that was left in him.  
It was difficult to decipher. Armand had been soft-spoken at the best of times, but now his voice was barely audible, his painful, labored breaths wheezing past Lamarin’s ear.  
But the young man strained to hear, and what he heard let all the color drain from his face.  
He remained a moment after Armand had fallen silent, trying to regain his composure. What to make of this new information? His thoughts were racing, and it took a while – his arm which carried all his weight as he bowed over his comrade trembling with the effort of holding him up – before he felt safe to raise himself again. And yet, Armand’s words were ringing in his ear with the force of a drum.  
They were the last words that Armand de Riberòn would ever speak.  
Half an hour later, god showed mercy on him.  
He stopped breathing as the bell of the nearby church rang the tenth hour and passed over the threshold in peace.  
He took Lamarin’s with him. For those last voices were as clear as they were terrible.  
Joseph was at the fair.  
Joseph, who had left for Aix less than a week ago. Joseph, who could not, under no circumstances, have been back already from his errand that brought him to the south.  
Joseph, of whom none of them had guessed that he had been back.  
Holding Armand’s hand during the last moments of his life, Marc Lamarin had no idea what to do.  
Silence followed the young man’s death much in the same manner as it had preceded it, but there was a slight shifting to the mood in the room, anxiousness changing to sadness, and slightly heavier breathing told Lamarin that a few were fighting tears.  
He felt frozen and unable to cry, a trait that was not shared by Sébastien. Tears ran down the man’s cheeks, and while he managed to refrain from sobbing, his silent grief was still something to behold.  
“There goes Armand…” he whispered, “the first of us to fall…”  
As if his words had broken a spell, the rest of the Cougourde started to file around their fallen comrade in their own, silent farewells, some of them in tears, some of them deathly pale and silent.  
The grim reaper had found his way into their midst all too suddenly.  
Lamarin stepped back to make room for the others, having said his goodbyes, and he found himself at the side of Jacques, whose pale face showed the strain of being up for too long despite his injuries.  
Yet, Jacques was Jacques. He was as hard on himself as he was on them.  
Silently they watched the proceedings, the leader and the youngest of them all, side by side.  
Eternities passed before Jacques began to speak.  
“Well Marc”, he said by way of greeting, in a cool, biting tone. “A true revolutionary you are…”


	25. Waking up to specters past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette dreams, Éponine faces reality and Joly and Bossuet ponder a certain lady

**Chapter 24: Waking up to specters past**   
_"So from now on I guess the operational phrase is 'Trust no-one.'"_

She was dreaming in random images.  
Her father, standing in front of her, and she was cold, so cold, but his smile was warm like a memory of summer far away.  
“Hey mademoiselle…?”  
Carefully she stepped towards him, placing her hand in his, trusting, calm, and he took it, coarse, strong fingers wrapping around hers and everything would be well. He pulled her towards him with surprising strength, tearing on her arm, turned her around, brutally almost, so that she was facing the wooden wall of the house again, and she felt his breath along her ear, merciless and cold and smelling of wine.  
She tensed and winced, but never stood a chance against his strength as he shoved her down to the floor and she hit the wood, hard and dry and foul smelling and curled up into herself as if that were able to save her.  
“Alouette, gentile alouette, alouette, je te plumerai…”  
She flinched, at the sound, so well-known, so dreaded, and tried to crawl under one of the tables as the brawl in the tavern room got louder, singing and cheering and wine dripping from the tables onto the floor for her to sweep up later.  
She avoided the feet of the customers, trying to find a way to the stairs to the first floor, where she could hide from the brawl, hide from their faces, hide from the…  
“Sweep the floor, dreamer, d’you think you’re here for nothing?”  
A hard hand tore her from beneath the table and pulled her to her feet.  
It was the slap to her face that woke her.  
Cosette shot up to a sitting position, brutally awakening from a dream that she could barely make sense of. The room was unfamiliar and dark; carried the same sort of furniture that she was used to - a bed, a wardrobe, a dressing table, a writing table, a bedside table - but all in unfamiliar shape and hue as the early morning light broke through the curtains and did not mind that she felt, as if she had slept much too little and dreamt to strongly.  
Her hand went up to her cheek where she had received the slap, but the ghost of the pain vanished the moment skin connected with skin and revealed the imagination for what it was.  
It did not help.  
The vivid images of the night were not so easily spooked away, resilient and unyielding, the sounds and sights hidden just behind the next blinking of her eyes.  
Cosette drew up her knees to her chest and considered to cry.  
It would probably have brought her some relief. But there was something inside her, a fear deeper than tears, like a center inside her going cold unceremoniously, icy and contemptuous and unyielding.  
She took deep breaths and tried to recall where she was and what had happened the day before…  
One step at a time… count your blessing… and there is the castle on a cloud…  
The vivid imagery of towers and windows, all in white, a kingdom of its own and as familiar as the buried favourite toy of a more fortunate child.  
The memory was so strong that for a moment, Cosette could not place where she was or what she was doing, curling together between the sheets  
Between the dirty rags that served as her bedding, behind the counter where the air was drafty….  
And she was surprised at the warmth, so surprised that she forgot for a moment it had been like that for such a long time. She had forgotten how it felt to be warm…  
Cosette felt the onslaught of something she did not, could not understand, her thoughts incoherent and jumbling.  
Light, she thought vaguely and stumbled out of bed, almost toppling over her long nightshirt in the process, and opened up the curtains for the light to fall in, the summer sun of late may burning into the room with ferocity through the slightly dirty windows…  
The windows were dirty and the rooms shabby, but it was the safest she had felt since she could remember….  
She opened the windows to let the summer air in, felt the stench of the city – so much clearer to recognize here than in the idyll of Rue Plumet – engulf her, tear her back to reality, as disgusting as it was in the end.  
“No”, she said, to herself, her fingers wrapping themselves around the windowsill before her, the wood grounding her, rooting her in reality. “No.”  
She took deep breaths and willed herself awake, wide awake, before she dared to turn back to the room itself again, towards the mirror, looking at herself.  
The blue eyes that stared back from the glass were haunted, fearful and wide, blond curls mussed and tangled from sleep, the white nightshirt in disarray, her face pale. There was little beauty in her now, as she was sitting there trying to sort out her thoughts, and she tried to take comfort and strength from the simplest things.  
She took up the comb and loosened the braid that she had woven for the night. Methodically, she began to brush out tangles, carefully, with long, practiced strokes, her fingers slipping through the woven strands of the color of spun gold.  
She was beautiful, she knew, but she knew it in the manner that she knew that the sun was hanging in the sky. It was a perimeter of her life, a fact to be assessed and accepted. There was no reason for pride or rejoicing.  
She stared at the reflection of the beautiful girl in the mirror, long and hard, feeling how the daily rituals she went about slowly soothed her spirit and left room for the one question that mattered.  
Who am I?

 

“Good morning, poppet, rise and shine…”  
The singsong tore her out of black nothingness into the light of day.  
She felt as if she had barely slept an hour, but as it turned out later it had been closer to four at least, which, if not accounting for a decent night’s sleep, at least provided some of the dearly needed rest.  
Still the wake-up call, however gentle it was, was unwelcome, and Éponine turned around towards her sister, trying in a bout of childishness to hide from both sun and voice, but a hand placed itself on her shoulder and shook her softly.  
The touch roused her to full wakefulness, and she reacted on impulse before even having the opportunity to reconsider. In a quick movement she shoved aside the hand, slapping at the intruding fingers while pain shot up her shoulder again, reminding her that the injury was neither fully forgotten nor forgiven.  
Laughter responded to her fierce gesture, all too familiar laughter, as she turned again to the person that had woken her. Slowly recognition setting in, she opened her eyes and took in the scenery.  
He was unruffled. Éponine knew that there were few things that could unsettle him – for a man as capricious as he was, it seemed odd to have such an even, unshakeable spirit, but she had to admit that he had learnt to shield his thoughts and wishes so well, that there was no telling what went on behind his forehead.  
His clothes were slightly dirtier than the day before, his coat torn at the left sleeve – something which Éponine knew would jar him greatly, as taken with his appearance as he was – but apart from that he seemed unharmed and quite the same as before.  
Montparnasse had a way of coming out on top of every situation. And thus he appeared cheerful as the summer sun as he crouched beside the cot that she and Azelma were sharing, seeming for all intents and purposes as if he had just returned from a pleasant stroll and not spent time in prison.  
Prison…  
The thought roused her as memories of yesterday’s adventure with Enjolras in La Force floated back. Éponine turned around fully and propped herself on her good shoulder, as Azelma beside her slowly stirred, torn from sleep by her sister’s rapid movements.  
“Parnasse!”  
Montparnasse flashed her a smile and managed to exert a bow despite his crouched position without looking utterly ridiculous in the process.  
“No other”, he confirmed proudly, yet the twinkle in his eyes was full of play, full of mirth. “At your service, Mademoiselle. As always.”  
Eponine fully sat up and rubbed over her face with both hands in an attempt to clear her thoughts from sleep and weariness. The strain and lack of rest during the last days was starting to take its toll.  
None the less she was very aware that his appearance here was unusual to say the least.  
“What are you doing here?” she asked the logical question, and Montparnasse sat down in a gesture that almost looked graceful, stretching out his legs before him, propping himself on his arms. He had a distinctively smug manner about him, and this put Éponine on the edge knowing that her father and the rest of Patron-Minette were still in prison, while Montparnasse himself had managed to escape by in the very least dubious means.  
“Paying a visit to a friend?”  
His manner was grating on her nerves and she wondered if he had always been that exasperating, or if the overall situation just put things in a different perspective. She felt a snappy response wishing to be born on her lips, one of the snarky replies that already by habit dominated her conversation with Montparnasse. But she was well and truly cross, and apart from long familiarity felt no inclination to joke with him at the moment.  
“Why are you not in prison?” she therefore asked, fairly bluntly and quite at odds with her former dealings with her friend.  
He pouted and gave an exasperated sigh.  
“You say that as if you regret it, poppet”, he responded, sounding slightly offended as he threw her a quick gaze.  
“I say that”, Éponine clarified, “as if I’m wondering what happened.”  
Montparnasse’s grin returned, and he cocked his head.  
“Tools of the trade, ‘Ponine”, he evaded her question and Éponine exploded.  
“Stop it, ‘Parnasse and be serious for once!” she snapped, eyes blazing, and she felt Azelma flinching beside her, saw from the corner of her eye how her sister retreated further towards the wall to escape her fury. “You can hardly expect a warm welcome after you left my father in prison so will you – please – tell me what happened?”  
Montparnasse raised a well-shaped brow.  
“Why this sudden concern for your genitor?” he retorted, but at her angry snort he reconsidered and sighed. “It’s actually no big secret. They took both me and that dwarf for interrogation. The dwarf seemed to know the guards that took us there, and the rest was a few coins changing hands and us going free. Blame me for jumping at that chance.” He shrugged. “Sorry, it doesn’t make up for such an interesting telling. I’d invent something, if not for that glare of yours.”  
“Thanks”, Éponine replied drily, only slightly appeased. She pulled her legs up and ran her fingers through her tangled hair in an attempt at straightening it out rudimently. He watched, a pensive smile on his lips.  
“Can I help?” he offered, and Eponine remembered that there had been a time where she would have said yes, but that time was long ago and she had no desire to return.  
“No”, she replied therefore, wincing as she dealt with a particularly vicious tangle. “You can tell me something about that dwarf.”  
The young man turned his head away from Éponine, offering another shrug that was just a trifle to nonchalant.  
“The questions you ask, ‘Ponine.” Something flittered through his eyes, and Éponine, for all her tiredness and anger, felt a notion of fear and unrest that was harder to shake than she would have it. This was exactly the same reaction she had gotten when she had asked about the assassin at the market, and it was no less unpleasant to see.  
Éponine frowned and could not help a flash of worry.  
Montparnasse and herself had shared a lot of times, both good and bad. He had been one of the first people she had met – and gotten to know – in Paris; and it was still in parts thanks to him that she had survived those horrible first years. There had been something of Gavroche in him or rather Gavroche had something in him that reminded her of a younger Montparnasse. But life and wrath had roughed off the smoother edges of the gamin, and now, looking into his eyes, she could see very little of the young boy she once knew.  
That, if anything, made her glad that Gavroche had made friends at the Café Musain. There was still hope that he would be spared a similar downfall.  
And still, Éponine was not indifferent to the part of Montparnasse that had once been a cheerful gamin.  
“Are you in trouble?” she asked, her voice a trifle softer than before. He smiled surprisingly honestly and turned towards her, shaking his head.  
“No, ‘Ponine. But you might be.” There it was, the remnant of the boy that had welcomed her in Paris (“This is my kingdom. Take a look around!”), the boy who had told her about those things one needed to know in this city. He had shaped her into what she was today, and she could not fully forget it.  
She wondered, if the concern in his eyes was genuine.  
“The dwarf is no man to trifle with. He’s seen you, ‘Ponine. Whatever you’re doing, you best duck and cover.”  
Éponine heard her sister’s frightened gasp behind her but she ignored it, stunned at the expression in Montparnasse eyes that seemed to her like a window into a time five years back.  
It made her want to cry for innocence lost. In both of them.  
But time had turned and now, both of them were so different to what they had been then. Actually, Éponine felt as if she were already different to how she had been a week ago.  
There was nothing she could say to Montparnasse’s words of concern. She had made a decision, and she had no intention of taking it back. This, however, she felt, she could not share with him. While she believed that he was genuinely worried, she also suspected that he would not understand why she had joined forces with Enjolras and his sort. On the other hand, she was fairly certain he would not share more than what he already had.  
He had always tried to keep her away from the darkest of his dealings, about which Éponine actually knew very little. For all his dash, Montparnasse knew how to keep a secret.  
Even from her. Especially from her.  
“Will you help us get them out?”  
She changed the subject rather abruptly, but he adapted, lightning quick. A grin flashed. The well-known Montparnasse was back.  
“By all means”, he said, and again Éponine heard uneasy shuffling from her sister sitting at her side. “You have a plan?”  
“In the making”, Éponine answered and pulled herself slightly back, as to create a circle between herself, Montparnasse and her sister.  
Azelma was sitting, back leaned against the wall, legs drawn up to her chest. She watched the exchange between the two with widened eyes. As Éponine retreated, she saw her sister’s fingers clenching briefly, but she remained where she was, chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully as she turned to her.  
Éponine quickly relayed the results of yesterday’s discussion with her brother to Azelma and Monparnasse. Her sister gave no outward reaction even though Éponine was certain she was listening attentively, but on the face of the young man a grin appeared that was halfway between cocky and annoying.  
“See, Ponine?” he said and made a move to shove her in the side, but after a quick glance to the shoulder that was still bound in clean linen – the work of Combeferre yesterday evening – he reconsidered and just gave her a wink. “That’s what I like you for. You’re mad, but you dare things.”  
He began to fiddle with the threadbare cover that had slid from Éponine’s legs to the floor, nimble finger twirling it around in his hands, around and around, as he seemed to ponder this.  
“I like the part of stealing other people’s linen”, he admitted then. “I have just the place, in fact, for that sort of undertaking.”  
Éponine was not sure she wanted to know the particulars, and so she nodded.  
“Well”, she said. “Then you could do that. Azelma and I will try to get the tools we would need.”  
There was a curt nod from her sister, more to her than to Montparnasse, but Éponine knew well that Azelma had understood despite all her silence.  
Montparnasse shrugged.  
“No offense, though, poppet, I have no intention of going back into that wretched prison. I’ll leave that to you if you don’t mind.”  
Éponine frowned slightly at that, but it was not fully unexpected. Apart from the fact that Montparnasse had just left la Force – well, in truth so had she; but she had come as a visitor – he also had a sense of self-preservation that sometimes played in his advantage.  
Alas, it usually played to the disadvantage of those working with him.  
There was not much discussing with him, though, as Éponine well knew and thus she resorted to accept it.  
“You don’t have to. You can watch from the outside. Warn us. Give us whistles. We should agree on some signals, though.”  
Many of them were already fixed between them, commonly used by Patron-Minette. One had to say, that Montparnasse was especially skilled at this art, producing a multitude of strongly varying sounds which they accounted to various items and events.  
There was of course always the odd chance of the Police catching onto the odd piping, but experience had proven the suitability of that kind of system time and again.  
A comfortable hour was spent sorting out signals, Montparnasse demonstrating and the girls memorizing the sounds and attributing them to events (single patrol, small patrol, too many – you have to hide, coast is clear, someone is watching you…). Éponine actually started to have fun in this venture, but it was of course only until shuffling could be heard from the kitchen and her mother, in bad humor and hung over, slouched her way from the kitchen to the girls’ sleeping room. She loomed in the door, nearly blocking out the light in the process and glared at them, vexed by their presence, their noise, angry at being woken and generally discontent.  
Interrupting the planning session she took in the scenery, squinting in bad humor and snorting in anger.  
“About time”, she growled, guessing at what her children and their comrade were aiming at, and she reserved the nastiest glare of hers for Montparnasse who greeted her with exuberance and seemingly unfazed by her ill-tempered appearance.  
“Madame Thénardier, the very best of mornings to you!”  
“Get lost, brat”, she snarled at him, completely ignoring her own children, and turned back to the kitchen, to work or to drink or to just sit around at the table staring into nothingness.  
Éponine willed herself not to care.  
“There won’t be breakfast”, she called out to the three, as if anyone had been expecting otherwise.  
“Too bad”, murmured Éponine, voice heavy with sarcasm, thinking how different this morning was from the one before. “And I was counting on apple tarts…”

 

For a moment Bossuet wondered, how one might have the atrocity of rattling at Joly’s door at this early time in the morning, but then he remembered that technically it was not morning at all.  
It surely felt like it – they had drawn all the curtains and closed all the blinds to ban the summer sun for as long as possible – Joly’s apartment went out south, so there was a chance to last until noon at least – and the quarter was thankfully quiet, the inhabitants of the house either workers long gone to their positions or students who had already left for university.  
So, in all fairness, it was probably almost noon when the visitor came, and that was on the whole an entirely senseful time.  
Bossuet was keeping the last watch and desperately tried to stay awake. They had decided on a five hours sleep for everyone, and he already had had his and did not feel rested at all.  
The darkened room did not help. He could dimly make out the shapes of Joly – curled in his bed that was standing in the room at a slightly haphazard angle, following the exact north-south axis – and Jehan, who had taken the couch after he had woken Bossuet and was obviously sleeping soundly.  
The table at which he sat was littered with writings – Jehan had apparently passed the time in his watch by trying to piece together a poem, but from what little Bossuet had looked at in the first minutes of his watch, being overtired did not necessarily lead to an enhancement in verbal skills. Knowing Jehan, all of these scribblings would tomorrow probably fall prey to a particularly unmerciful hearth.  
Bossuet had not found an occupation to bring him through the watch yet. He had considered reading – by candlelight – and found he was too tired to concentrate, or even cleaning up the room, which clearly showed that during the last days they had only crashed into the apartment to sleep, eat a little, and leave again. Finally he had not bothered with that either.  
So he was watching the clock standing on the sideboard and willed the minutes to pass by when the knocking at the door announced an unexpected arrival.  
They had of course discussed what they would do, but Jehan had just gotten to sleep and Joly had taken the first watch and slept the littlest of them last night to allow Feuilly some precious minutes more before he went to work. Therefore Bossuet ignored their planning and opted against waking both of them to find more strength in numbers. Instead, he grabbed the pistol that was lying before him on the table – loaded and ready – and stepped towards the door on his own.  
His concern was unwarranted though.  
The visitor was a young man, probably sixteen years of age, dressed well but simply, a cap hiding well-cut blonde hair. He was carrying a very familiar basket and a second, not so familiar one, holding both out to Bossuet as the latter opened the door.  
“Bonjour Monsieur”, he greeted Bossuet politely, bowing his head slightly in deference. “Monsieur Joly, I presume?”  
For a moment Bossuet pondered if he should clear the misunderstanding, but in the end he saw no reason for it and nodded to avoid any explanation.  
“Madame de Cambout has asked me to bring you this and convey her utmost thanks.”  
The boy placed the baskets in front of him. One of them, the larger one, contained a blueish dress, apparently ironed and aired, carefully folded and in at least as good a state as he had last seen it.  
The second basket, smaller, carried two bottles of wine and a cloth folded. That again, upon closer inspection, contained two small Alsatian kougelhoupfs and a few raisin breads, simple pastries yet eliciting a wonderful smell. A small note was accompanying the goods in Madame’s own, clear writing, thanking for the loan of the dress and stating, that part of the pastries were meant for the emissaries, and part for the lady who had borrowed the clothes to her. Bossuet could not help a grin.  
Musichetta would love this. She always appreciated a favor returned.  
He thanked the boy and gave him a small coin – the number of coins in his pocket were growing distinctively small again, but that was no excuse not to be decent to a messenger – which sent him on his way again, probably back to the de Cambouts. Bossuet called a greeting to Madame after him, and the boy stopped shortly and nodded in acquiescence before he finally vanished out of sight in the lower stories.  
Coming back to the apartment, Bossuet had to realize that Joly was awake.  
He had sat up and was roaming his hands through his hair in an attempt to clear his head, as he squinted at him owlishly. His left went automatically to the nightstand, where he had deposited his glasses and replaced them, his squinting lessening even though fatigue was still very clear in his face.  
“I’m sorry”, Bossuet apologized. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”  
“You were supposed to wake me when someone knocks”, Joly contradicted without any real reprimand and turned his gaze to the baskets. “Who was it?”  
“Messenger from the de Cambouts.” Bossuet reconsidered. “Or the Dufrancs, more likely, come to think of it.”  
“Ah, yes…” Joly turned to get up and threw aside the blanket, apparently giving up on the concept of sleep today. Bossuet wondered, if he should try to make him rest some more, but decided against it. For all his fretting and fidgeting, his friend did not take very well to patronizing – if only because it reminded him of all the things that could, that might happen. “Poor Madame.”  
“Poor Madame indeed”, Bossuet answered, remembering the stony look on her face as they had met her yesterday, so uncharacteristic and different from the Hélène de Cambout he knew. “She brought back Musichetta’s dress though. And breakfast.”  
“Much appreciated”, Joly commented and got up, stepping over to the baskets to inspect its contents. “Maybe we can bring it back to her later today.”  
There was an odd tone to the voice of his friend, and Bossuet barely repressed a sigh. It was depressing to watch this dance even from afar, and his distance to them was not all that great. And he wished that there was something he could do.  
He had regretted a thousand times since the story had started, that he had brought Joly with him to the opera that night. To be honest, he had not even thought of Musichetta that day, but she had brought herself to his memory on her own, and even then, he would have never guessed that the situation would unfold the way it did.  
Musichetta was a spirited woman, opera chorus girl that she was; capricious and beautiful, funny and educated, knew to make the most intelligent ironic comments about the opera and its inhabitants. She had a clear view of the shadier parts of human beings and was prone to give dry remarks at the most fitting times. She was easy to like, easy to laugh with. Clever. Skilled. Passionate.  
And the last person that anyone should ever fall in love with.  
For all her good traits, that woman was like a fire alluring moths, and she would not hesitate to burn when touched.  
Of course he had told this to Joly. And of course it had been to no avail. Since then he had tried his hand in damage control, but he had to admit that success had been on the whole very limited.  
The last months had seen a precarious peace on that front – as far as anything concerning Musichetta was ever peaceful – but to Bossuet’s eyes a catastrophe could still happen at any time.  
Joly had insisted they asked her for a dress to borrow to Madame de Cambout; and Musichetta had complied grudgingly, but not without harsh words about the early hour of their appearance and the atrocity of her request.  
Bossuet had taken her rambling for what it was – Musichetta was able of breathtaking scorn for no apparent reason at all and like any storm, there was nothing to do but ride it out – but Joly had yet to learn this lesson, for all the time he knew her.  
“I’ve told you time and again, you shouldn’t…”, Bossuet picked up a conversation they had had several times already, including yesterday, after leaving Musichetta’s place and coming to Rue Pascal.  
“… bait her”, Joly finished together with him, having heard that particular litany probably once too often. “I know, Lesgle.”  
He stepped over to the small washing cabinet that could be reached through a small side door, and for a moment, the only sound heard was that of water splashing and then the rustling of cloth as the medical student readied himself for the day.  
Bossuet took the time to set up breakfast in the kitchen; which was fairly large, sunlit to the point that he was squinting and separated from the main room by another door.  
Jehan was still sleeping, but since at least the two of them were awake, there was no harm in starting already.  
When Joly arrived a few minutes later, hair smoothed, fully dressed, he also seemed to have cast off his somber mood with his sleepiness, blinking at the vicious sunlight invading his kitchen but otherwise unfazed and curious as to the contents of the basket.  
Together, the friends divided and shared the goods, equal parts for them and Musichetta, keeping the door to the main room slightly open to maintain a semblance of watching, even though the probability of an intruder coming at this moment was probably slim given the hour.  
“So we should pass by the opera after breakfast?” Bossuet took up the thread of conversation again, and Joly, much more composed, nodded.  
“It’s Wednesday”, he recalls. “They’re giving La dame blanche.” Joly made a face in disgust. Bossuet shared the sentiment.  
“Who put that on the stage anyhow?” he asked, shuddering to think of the piece that, for those who were educated enough to see it, was a thinly veiled praise to an order that even the July Monarchy seemed to have overcome and would consider outdated.  
“Some patron, probably”, Joly answered with a shrug. “Musichetta swears she doesn’t know.”  
Bossuet grinned.  
“And said she had to wipe her mouth every time that she has sung it, poor girl.”  
A fond smile found its way on Joly’s face, and he fiddled with the edge of his plate nervously in absence of his cane which was still in the main room, next to his bed.  
“Or do other things to get rid of the taste”, he said, the smile turning slightly cheeky and Bossuet could not help laughing in return.  
“Ah yes”, he confirmed. “There is always that! So that’s where you were last Wednesday.”  
For a moment, comfortable silence settled in the room after Joly’s somewhat sheepish shrug, before Bossuet continued.  
“So la dame blanche means…”  
“It’s been running for a while now. Hairstyle and clothes following more or less what is still currently in fashion. No additional rehearsals, no long time spent dressing up in costumes. She will have to go in comparably late today. We may still catch her until about five in the afternoon.”  
Joly had, over the last year, become a walking encyclopedia on the schedule of the opera, its workings and timetables.  
One had to be, if one was to catch a creature as elusive as Musichetta.  
“So no hurry then”, Bossuet concluded. “We may still be able to drop off Jehan to the meeting with that poet friend of his, before we go to her.”  
Joly nodded and helped himself to one of the raisin breads, while Bossuet rewrapped the part of the breakfast reserved for Musichetta into the clean linen it had been delivered in, when his regard fell on something that had previously been hidden below.  
Retrieving the paper, he held the newest edition of Le Globe in hands, the entangled letters on the first page a familiar sight to them – they had read and contributed so often.  
“Look what Madame has…”, he began to Joly, but before he could finish the sentence, his gaze fell onto the first page, its headline and article, and the words stopped in his throat, as if someone had cut a thread in two.  
“What?”  
Joly got up and walked around the table to peek over his shoulder, but his reaction, predictably, was similar.  
“Oh no…”


	26. The roll of thunder in the distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Madame de Cambout commits a capital error and trouble finds Éponine effortlessly.

**Chapter 25: The roll of thunder in the distance**   
_"Signs, portents, dreams, next thing we'll be reading tea leafs and chicken entrails. All we do know is that we are vulnerable now. We should expect something to be coming our way sooner or later. The way our luck works, it will probably be sooner."_

He was the last to wake, and when he did, there was a part of him that was grateful.  
The hectic events of the days before had given him uneasy dreams, and even though he still felt tired, wondering how many hours of sleep he had had, he was relieved to escape the images of the girl Éponine, twitching as he stitched up her shoulder, of specters of his friends being attacked and cornered and killed, and of Hélène, ever Hélène, in her bloody nightdress with horror in her eyes.  
He sat up with a groan and shook his head in an attempt to clear his less than productive thoughts. This was leading him nowhere. For all the surprise the attacks had been, yesterday evening had been a beam of hope, the unification of the groups of their acquaintance into the council had worked better than he had feared.  
In the end, sense had won over with all of them, and that was something to rejoice in. While he was generally at loath to accept that from blood new and positive things could be born, one had to admit that Enjolras was partly right in this venture. Without the threat from whatever force was opposing them, a council as they had formed yesterday would have been so much more difficult.  
He felt a small smile creeping on his lips. There was beauty in the thought that good was born from evil intent and that darkness might actually in the end provide its own downfall.  
The idea was encouraging.  
Feeling distinctively more energetic after finding that line of thought, he opened his eyes and assessed the situation around him.  
He had spent the night on one of the – granted – uncomfortable benches on the walls of the Musain. Enjolras, Grantaire and himself had decided to stay here with Feuilly, for sheer exhaustion and unwillingness to chance the trip once across Saint Michel to reach Enjolras’ apartment.  
Grantaire had offered his own lodgings, which were nearer, but Enjolras had predictably refused – probably rightfully so, knowing Grantaire - and so they ended up here, in the Musain, where benches provided an uneasy resting place at best.  
Enjolras was already awake, sitting at one of the tables next to the window, gazing out onto Place Saint-Michel with a slightly pensive frown, while Grantaire; surprisingly also up already, had occupied a place further inside the café, where less light was protruding and he could, ill-naturedly, hold his head in his hands with a slightly pitiful groan.  
“Water, Grantaire”, Combeferre advised from where he was sitting, his voice still slightly rough from sleep as he tried to straighten out his chemise that was rumpled from the night and reached for the waistcoat that he had discarded before laying down. “Lots of it, in fact. And maybe a piece of salt meat.”  
“Plague of my days”, Grantaire grumbled at him without even looking up.  
“There is a very simple way to avoid this.” Enjolras had turned his head from Place Saint Michel towards the drunkard, his voice as cool as his gaze. He seemed to be rested, despite the little sleep he only could have had and unleashed his haughtiness in all its glory upon Grantaire. “Drink less and you will feel less wretched in the morning.”  
“Bah”, Grantaire supplied, remarkably monosyllabic in sobriety given his normal exuberance in words. Enjolras’ gaze slipped away from the drunkard to focus on Combeferre, slightly gaining warmth and humanity.  
“Good morning, Combeferre”, he issued a greeting and fully turned towards him. It was by his manner that Combeferre realized, that Enjolras was no less tired than he, but he was hiding it better, slipping behind an attitude that was more detached than usual. He had taken the last watch. “Or rather – good day, I fear.” There was the hint of a smile around his lips, and he returned it automatically. His hand wandered to the pocket watch tucked away safely in his waistcoat, and looking upon it he found it to be slightly past noon.  
“Has he been up long?” Combeferre asked with a nod to Grantaire as he got onto his feet and passed over to Enjolras to sit at the same table. His friend had a cup of coffee gone cold in front of him, half drunk and then forgotten in his reverie, and Enjolras shrugged slightly.  
“Half an hour maybe”, he answered. “Madeleine and Louison are still sleeping, though. Lucien made some coffee before he and Feuilly left.”  
Before going to sleep, they had supplied some money to Lucien to convince him to drop off Feuilly at work before he went to the market in the morning and buy the goods needed for another opening day in the Musain. Madeleine and Louison had shared the first watch by cleaning up the café from the assembly, and then woken Combeferre, who then had passed the duty on to Enjolras. Thus, they had survived the night.  
“That would not go amiss”, Combeferre confessed and got up again, walking towards the bar where a can of now cold coffee stood, including a few cups.  
He poured two of them and placed one in front of Grantaire, who gave him a look that ranged somewhere between angry and thankful, before he stepped up to Enjolras’ table again and took a seat.  
“So what is on the agenda for today?” he asked. Enjolras placed his fingers against each other.  
“While we are waiting for the leaflets with the images of the assassins, we should start our own investigations on the nature of our enemies, don’t you think? This gypsy family that Stéphane Barilou told us about would be a good start. And to be honest, I would also like to know what happened to the General. I have not heard any news from his Palais since yesterday.”  
“No news may be good news in that respect”, Combeferre tried to supply, but the critical look Enjolras gave him needed no additional words to go with.  
“You are the medic”, he gave back none the less. “Should you not be able to tell me?”  
“There is still very little we know about this disease”, Combeferre answered. “The way it spreads defies the theories of what we thought we knew about transmitting diseases. Infection and severity of the disease seem completely random.”  
He sat down at the table opposite to Enjolras with the cup of almost-cold coffee, taking a sip before he continued.  
“It does not seem to spread via contact as other diseases do, and even the idea of miasma does not seem to allow a thorough explanation of its transition. It seems to, at times, affect only one member of the household – and that is different to most of the epidemics that we have seen in the past, and the paths of contagion are really not clear.”  
Understandably, these facts had been a much discussed item in the medical lectures as of late; however, as far as Combeferre was concerned, no proof had yet been given to rule out or confirm any of the theories and rumors that were spreading around. Joly, predictably, had creatively contributed to the set of ideas running around, but he was not convinced.  
“There is a certain pattern to the mortality”, he continued, thinking aloud, “A certain age, weaknesses or previous sickness make it more difficult to recover. It usually takes a few of days, during which the course of the sickness is shaped and the outcome will be determined, but weakened individuals have been known to last as short as a few hours. Therefore…”  
A slight chuckle interrupted his lecture, and he could see Enjolras laughing despite himself as he raised his hand to stop the words. Slightly ashamed, Combeferre realized that he had been rambling.  
“Enough, my friend, enough”, Enjolras interrupted. “The topic is grim enough as it is, I am afraid. What you are trying to tell me is that you do not know, correct?”  
Combeferre assessed this briefly and had to confirm that his friend had grasped the heart of the matter.  
“We will have to investigate then”, he nodded and looked out of the windows again, where the shape of Lucien walked back towards the Café, his hand-cart loaded with goods he had acquired at the market. He did not enter the guest room but took the side entrance into the kitchen, where they heard him rummaging around and probably waking his wife and Lousion, who had likewise decided to stay in the Café and were still asleep.  
Combeferre sighed.  
That would mean no lectures again, today. If they were keeping up at this rate, serious trouble with respect to their presence at university was to be expected in short time. Yet, to be honest, he felt too tired to even try and put up with Arago’s experiments or Dupuytren’s dissections.  
In companionable – if slightly exhausted – silence, Enjolras and Combeferre sat and watched the comings and goings on Place Saint Michel, where people were going about their daily business, the hustle and bustle of the quarter seemingly unfazed of the hectic events of the two past days.  
A few minutes later, though, their reverie was broken as Lucien entered the main room of the café, bringing bread, cheese and some of the first summer apples as a substitution of a thorough breakfast – which the café did not usually serve, given the fact that it usually opened in the early afternoon.  
The rules of the café’s opening hours of course had not applied to the Friends of the ABC in a long time, and as a result, they had become used to Lucien’s impromptu meals.  
What was even more appreciated that the Café had – due also to the fairly opinioned nature of its owners – made it a point of keeping a stock of the most renowned journals of Paris, and thus together with breakfast arrived a set of papers, that Lucien placed on the table next to Enjolras and Combeferre to browse through if they felt like it.  
Combeferre’s gaze registered out of habit the journals present – Le National, L’ami du people and even an edition of Le Figaro; the reading of which was as entertaining as its appearance was irregular – but his hand went without even thinking to the so familiar script and layout that was Le Globe.  
He stared at the article on the first page in horror.

 

“It seems that we will not have to look far for information on the state of health of Lamarque”, Enjolras remarked from behind le National, while Combeferre was still digesting the title page of the so familiar newspaper, barely registering what his friend was saying. “Our friends from Le National have taken it upon themselves to report on the general’s health.”  
Combeferre’s first thought was that Alexandre would be livid not having had that idea before his competitors took it up, but Alexandre was dead, dead of course, and he could not dream of rising Le Globe to the most read paper in Paris any more.  
It took an inhuman effort to tear himself away from the paper he was reading.  
“So… what’s it saying?” Combeferre managed and took a look at his friend – or better, at the newspaper hiding his face.  
“It is vague enough”, Enjolras admitted. “Even though it does state that Docteur Bricheteau has been seen to enter the Palais of Lamarque. According to this…” he briefly hesitated as he apparently continued to skim the bulletin that Le National had released , “Bricheteau has not commented himself but he has stayed for a few hours in the Palais. It seems, if this report can be believed, that while the general has indeed been stricken down with Choléra, his condition has not deteriorated as quickly as with some other cases, which seems to carry some hope in itself.”  
Combeferre’s attention had drifted back to the newspaper while Enjolras was speaking, and only by the sudden absence of his friend’s voice he realized that some answer was in order.  
“Ah”, he said, knowing himself that this was probably not an appropriate response, and the reaction followed swiftly.  
“Are you even listening?” Enjolras asked, exasperation in his voice, and Combeferre heard the rustling of paper as Enjolras folded Le National back into itself, giving his friend a slightly reprimanding glance. “What is it you are reading anyhow – ah, Le Globe. I should have guessed.” He seemed to debate internally for a moment, but then, coming to a decision, he placed aside his own newspaper and looked at his friend, with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity.  
“So, what is it that commands your attention so?”  
Combeferre felt himself utterly at loss to explain and as an alternative placed the newspaper flat on the table and turned it half around, so that Enjolras might have a look himself.  
The leader of the ABCs fell silent, blonde brows rising slowly.  
From the front page, the eyes of Alexandre de Cambout stared back at them, in a picture that was of remarkable likeness – the work of Pierre Berat himself, no doubt.  
Combeferre had recognized the image as one from the time when de Cambout had taken over the journal and Le Globe in the person of Michel Chevalier had written a generous introduction about this new editor.  
The image had been altered, however, since then, the expression of glory and life mocked by the faded likeness of a skeleton head that seemed to be looming behind the glowing face of Alexandre – ghastly empty eyesockets staring at the former editor of the newspaper while the rest of the background faded into threatening black, giving additional effort to the fading effect of the skeleton head. The image was well done – probably the skill of Pierre Berat showing – but it was ghastly, and the headline was not less so.  
Editor murdered, it said, in large, baroque letters that would have been pretty, had the message been any more so.  
Enjolras skimmed the article that Combeferre had already read. It was well written, in a flowing feather with pointed expressions, the prose skillful and strong. The accusations, however, were only very poorly veiled.  
“That… is bold”, Enjolras managed, slightly aghast, and exchanged a look with his friend. Combeferre was at loss for words for the moment and only shrugged helplessly. “Whose hand is that?”  
Combeferre’s gaze went back to the article, but he did not read. He had already once skimmed, once read it, and he painfully recognized the voice, recognized the rage and pure, utter misery that was seeping out of every phrase, every line of the article.  
He had been barely able to finish it, seeing molded into words all that he had seen the previous day, bottled up behind eyes that would not cry for all he would pray for them to do otherwise.  
The article was unsigned but Combeferre did not need a signature to recognize the turn of words, the trail of thoughts that was so familiar, clear and open to him.  
His voice was slightly unsteady as he gave the answer.  
“Madame’s…”  
Enjolras hesitated for a moment, a slight frown appearing on his pale forehead as he raised his eyes from the article to his friend.  
“Didn’t you say Madame doesn’t write herself?”  
“She doesn’t”, he replied.  
He had asked her that question early during her acquaintance. It had not taken him long to realize that Hélène’s judgment on the quality and composition of texts was unerring, her feeling for language, nuances and shades remarkable. Given these qualities, and given the fact that she was not shy in giving her own opinion and thoughts, he would have expected her to contribute to the paper by also writing her own articles, but she had strongly denied that.  
“She… always says she gets carried away when she starts to write…”, he reiterated the explanation that she had given him, stating that some days would have to pass between her writing and being able to judge a text – which was difficult to say the least in a daily journal. He had found that hard to believe, but she had given him proof of it when he had pressed for it. Indeed, even at that time he had seen that the same secure taste she exhibited as an editor failed her in her own writing.  
She had heartily laughed at this failure then and just reiterated that she would stick to editing and leave the writing to wordsmiths like him.  
However now she seemed to have ceded to listen to her own advice. He skimmed a few lines again, absorbing the pain that was evident through every word of the article, Madame de Cambout’s very angry, very public, very desperate way of grieving. This article was so personal and close to the reality of Hélène de Cambout’s state of mind that it almost felt like a letter.  
“I can see that”, Enjolras commented, and Combeferre shook his head, an almost desperate laugh on his lips.  
“I absolutely fail to understand how someone with a taste so infallible… infallible when it comes to other people’s work can be so blind to her own. And how she could do something… like this…”  
"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned”, Enjolras quoted Congreve, his voice dry but not unkind.  
It was true, but it did not soften the devastating effect. In fact, for all the dash and passion she exhibited at times, Combeferre would not have thought Hélène capable of such breathtaking imprudence.  
“This is so … unwise… dangerous…”, he broke off shaking his head again.  
“Have you known that she went to Le Globe yesterday?” Enjolras asked, and Combeferre briefly reviewed the events of the past day.  
He had left the de Cambout mansion at noon, Joly, Bossuet and Marc Lamarin arriving to pick him up after he had spent most of the morning in the company of Hélène’s father. She had given him a pale, distant goodbye, and he had not pressed her. He never did.  
“No”, he began with the obvious but then reconsidered, doubtful. “Yes”, he supplied in contradiction to his previous statement, and then finally, honestly: ”I don’t know.”  
Words failed him, as he still tried to digest the magnitude of Hélène’s imprudence. This action was at least equal to Enjolras standing in the middle of a marketplace shouting for revolution and downfall of the government. Worse in fact, because words spoken were fleeting while words written were not. It had always been the asset of Le Globe that they had carefully treaded the line between simple voicing of facts and opinions and the actual call for social change and uproar. Knowing the movement of Saint-Simonians that were behind the newspaper, fuelling it with money and articles alike, it had to be considered an asset that the de Cambouts had been able to temper that tone quite skillfully.  
Especially since Armand Bazard had left, Le Globe had been something of a sworn brotherhood, a society not unlike to their own one, a living, breathing companionship.  
And yet, all of them had watched Hélène soldier bravely into doom.  
“Someone should have stopped this”, Combeferre continued, more to himself than to Enjolras. “Someone should have protected her from this…”  
“Who would have?” Enjolras asked.  
Combeferre made a gesture of half-despair. The editing committee of Le Globe was a difficult body to start with.  
“I don’t know. The other editors. Michel Chevalier. Olinde Rodrigues… Probably not Enfantin. Dear god, he probably encouraged her in this…”  
He could see the vote coming up – Hélène’s angry plea, Chevalier’s tempered arguments, Enfantin’s passionate preaching. Rodrigues caught in between, torn between respect for Hélène, friendship for Enfantin and unease at the situation.  
Alexandre’s empty chair like an open wound in the room.  
And yet, as he went along the lines of the editors, as he had seen them so often sitting in the back chamber of the print shop, he realized with bitterness that the truth was fairly different.  
She had told him. For whatever reason, to whatever end, she had told him.  
‘We will tell our story, what they did’, she had said the day before, ’and what they dared. And with any luck, we will set the city aflame.’  
He had thought these words spoken in grief and pain of the moment. Never would he have thought she would follow this through. Of course, he should have known her better.  
“I should have”, he said, revelation robbing his voice of its tone. “I should have seen it. And I should have stopped it.”  
Enjolras raised a brow at the words of his friend.  
“My friend”, he began, in tempered tone. “Have you recently developed a gift for clairvoyance? Because this is the only manner in which I can imagine you could have seen this coming. This discussion is leading nowhere.” Enjolras’ voice was not ungentle, but sober, and that was a blessing. “The deed is done, and we must do best dealing with it.”  
There was some sense in the words and Combeferre could not help a rush of gratitude for the presence of his friend. Without detours he shot straight to the heart of the matter at hand. And Combeferre followed the trail of thought to the logical conclusion.  
“I shall speak to the editors”, he announced, “to at least prevent this from happening again.”  
Enjolras nodded.  
“That may be a wise cause of action. On the other hand though, while this exposure is earlier than we wanted, it may also be of some use. This deed may chase our opponents out of the shadows again. So in watching Madame de Cambout, we may well find us against them once more, albeit this time prepared.”  
The thought alone of having Hélène trying to survive another run-in with the assassins made his stomach clench.  
“She’s not a tool, Enjolras”, he contradicted heatedly. “Nor a bait.”  
“Unfortunately quite to the contrary”, his friend said, his tone sober again, devoid of expression or emotion. “With this”, and his hand went to the article itself, “she has made herself a tool, and you or I can do nothing that will change that. With this sacrifice already given, we should honor it by making the most use of it.”  
There was sense in Enjolras’ words, hard as they were to accept.  
Combeferre took a calming breath, a second one, and slowly folded the article back on itself and pushed the paper to the side.  
“All right”, he said, the effort of uttering these words showing in his tone. “What do we do?”

 

Azelma had always liked the market.  
Nowhere it was easier to be alone than in a crowd, where one was just a face in many, slipping through the cracks of the world as she usually would.  
It was like Picpus, but in moving, her body going through the motions by itself, as she looked around and saw both what was there and what was not.  
The clear May sun made even the crudest surroundings beautiful.  
Sometimes when she walked the market, she fancied herself one of those who actually were here to buy something, strolled casually from one stand to the others, the smell of cooked meat and baked bread her meal during the day to chase away the hunger.  
Azelma was good at making herself believe.  
Sometimes she even fancied this to be a different place, one of the markets the bourgeois went to, where the cloth sold was rich and colorful, and the pastries reminded her of her dimly remembered childhood, at a time when the inn was still getting food delivered from the town bakery, fresh, white bread and sweet cake.  
And while she walked through two worlds, one that she saw, and the other one that only she saw, her body went through the motions of long practice, avoiding passers-by, sometimes her fingers slipping to something useful, that was being held or placed incautiously.  
These times, Azelma figured herself to be the ghost of this market.  
Today, however, things were not so easy. She was with Éponine, was here with her sister who would not appreciate her getting lost in this comfortable refuge of hers. Worse still, they were here for a purpose that required more than getting through the familiar motions.  
There were three tinker stands, all with varying goods and qualities, and they were looking for tools that they could use on the nightly coup Éponine planned. Of course they had to make buying them as inconspicuous as possible.  
They had lost no time. After Montparnasse had left the apartment there had been no reason to stay, and they had escaped into the summer streets which were a far better place these days than the clammy, dark apartment they lived in. The sun transformed the city into a place of wonders.  
Azelma had followed Éponine; by habit, convenience and promise. Her sister had asked for her to help in the prison escapade she was planning, and Azelma would not deny her, even if the thought of slipping up the roofs of la Force terrified her.  
But she had not said so. It had never served her well to wish to escape the plans and schemes of her family. Her father or mother would react to opposition with a heavy hand, and Azelma had learned quickly that compliance avoided pain.  
Éponine had more subtle ways of conviction. She seldom used them, being caused in the same web that Azelma was, but when she set her mind to something she was not easily swayed.  
Not, that Azelma would try. In the mess that her life had become, Éponine was the sole person that she dared believe still on her side. No amount of fear was worth risking that.  
And so they had made their way to the market in silence.  
They had entered the place from the north, through one of the smaller streets, passing through the narrow alleyway with tenements towering to either side until the bustle of the market lay open before them and for a moment, their step slowed.  
They took a few steps to the side to be certain not to hinder the passing of further visitors to the market and surveyed the scene as they had learned to do, casual in posture, yet eyes alert, taking in every detail.  
Azelma went through the motions again, skimmed the crowd for the occasional oddity; the stray bourgeois on the wrong side of town on an errant that she could not fathom; the quarrel around a stand that sold eggs, which might turn out nasty and should be avoided.  
She could not spot the telltale signs of too-correctly tailored, simple clothing that would indicate a policeman without his uniform, but saw two Picpus monks in their white habits, standing in front of a cloth shop debating with the owner.  
Nothing seemed to be beyond what she had expected in this place, and she turned her gaze to Éponine to see if she agreed or disagreed. Her sister, however, was not watching the crowd. Instead, her frowning gaze had gone to a tanner’s shop, a small, crooked house of two stories, where a ladder with broad steps was leading up to the first floor.  
That would be a good surveillance point, Azelma noted absently with the habit of long years. It was in clear view of the whole market, but she could not understand, why it was such a point of interest to her sister.  
But apparently, whatever it was, Éponine dismissed it with a shrug and a shake of her head, as she turned back towards her sister with a crooked smile on her face.  
“So”, she began. “Sorry there was no breakfast for you, Azelma…”  
This was nothing out of the ordinary. Therefore, the statement was quite remarkable and left Azelma slightly confused. However, to that problem there was a solution.  
Her hand went to the small purse she had hidden in the sleeve of her blouse. It was really not much more than a cloth put together with some crude stitches, tucked away in a fold of her clothes, and yet, it contained all that she owned in the world.  
It was more than usual, today.  
Azelma had decided to use the unexpected grace of yesterday’s begging luck. Bringing home a piece of five francs would have raised questions she had not intended on answering, and therefore she had treated herself yesterday with a piece of white bread. Her five francs exchanged, she had concluded that four would be more than enough to appease her mother – and the smaller coins made the sum explainable by a huge funeral with people more charitable than usual. She had hid the remainder of the fifth franc in her sleeve, together with the few sous she had managed to put aside before.  
It was something she had seen Éponine do. Her sister thought that no one knew where her secret stock of money was lying, but Azelma knew. She had seen her. And she had concluded that unlike her sister, she would keep her money on her person. Always. It just safer that way.  
With nimble fingers, she extracted a few sous without even having to look at the money – every coin she owned was like a friend and she had preciously few of either – and presented them to Éponine on her open palm.  
“I was lucky yesterday”, she offered quietly, and her sister’s gaze turned quizzical. For a moment, Azelma cursed herself. She felt no inclination to share her encounter with the bourgeois yesterday – that was hers and hers alone - but Éponine did not ask and shook her head instead.  
“We’ll need what money we can salvage to get good tools”, she contradicted. “If we get a rasp that’s not sharp, it’ll take ages and we never get father out of that prison.”  
Azelma would have almost closed her fingers again. It somehow felt wrong to spend the precious few coins she salvaged from her parents’ grasp on their liberation again, but presumably Éponine had raided her own supplies as well, and then she could not fully stand back.  
Still, she felt some sorrow when she relinquished the precious coins into her sister’s care.  
“Then take it for this”, she answered sadly, and Éponine sighed, but she said nothing as she pocketed the money.  
“Alright, Azelma”, she nodded. “Let’s do it this way. Both of us pass at both tinkers. We’ll look for things we can use for tonight; rasps, saws, picks. We’ll see who gives us what price. That’s what we can take as a basis for where we buy. Be sure to take a look at the tools, if they’re rusty, if the handles are old. Pay attention that you don’t just get shown the prettiest pieces, pick your own samples and check them, all right?”  
Azelma nodded. She knew all this. She hated these tours, but she had done it often enough.  
She hated speaking to the merchants, hated the scheming and plotting. She had to come out of the shadows, and for all her familiarity, this always terrified her.  
Her world of dreams between the cracks of the world was so much safer.  
But she did as she was told, like always, and passed from one to the other, fingered the tools and got herself yelled at for it, ran her thumb along the sharp side of saws and quietly asked questions of price and quality.  
Across the place, she saw Éponine doing the same, but her manner was different. Where Azelma was careful, she was aggressive. She haggled, extensively and angrily, eyes blazing and fury sparking, and Azelma wondered whether her sister was actually enjoying this.  
She was faster than Éponine, for she did not discuss as much, and in the end only one merchant remained for her to cross over. However, she could not, because Éponine was still there, and it looked as if she would be a moment. Left with nothing to do, Azelma leaned against the wall of a building and watched the crowds passing by.  
She recalled the face of the curious bourgeois of yesterday, the man that had, apparently on a whim, pressed a full five francs into her palm. The boy with the kind eyes.  
It had been a while since anyone had shown her kindness unconditionally and Azelma was not sure what to make of it. She did not pretend to understand the ways of a bourgeois, but still, random acts of benevolence were far and in-between.  
She had replayed the conversation between them a thousand times since yesterday’s afternoon and the situation had lost none of its curiousness.  
“This is a city of glass”, he had said, inexplicably, and Azelma wondered what he might have meant.  
She wondered if he would explain it to her, if she asked.  
But these were fanciful thoughts, and belonged to the realm of her dreams, not the realm of dirty streets and run-down markets. It was never well to mix the two.  
Azelma forced herself out of her thoughts again to see if her sister had completed her haggling, but Éponine was not at the third stand anymore and Azelma realized that it was time to get back to work.  
Stepping towards the stand, she gazed over to the one she had visited first – and that was now in for a visit from her sister – but neither could she spot Éponine there. A middle aged-woman was choosing a set of scissors, but the dark head of her sister was nowhere to be seen.  
Azelma frowned. She skimmed the crowd, looking for the well-known shape of her sister, a sight as familiar as the back of her hand, started to walk at random between the three tinker stands.  
No Éponine.  
She was not at the tanner’s shop where they had agreed to meet and compare information after their deed was done.  
She was not lurking around one of the three stands, keen eyes observing proceedings and goods alike.  
And this was not like her. This was not like them.  
Reluctantly, Azelma’s movements became a little less careful, a little less flowing, and the harmony with the crowd that usually avoided her being remarked faded, and as she pushed through the customers of this market the fuss she created by stepping around between the stands would be all too obvious for someone with an experienced eye.  
Yet Éponine did not come to get her.  
That’s when Azelma knew that something was wrong.


	27. The face of the beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Éponine is in deep, deep trouble and Jehan meets the ghost of yesterday's dreams.

**Chapter 26: The face of the beast**   
_"Tonight is the day of the dead. Tonight the dead return."_

Breakfast at Courfeyrac’s apartment was a significantly later affair and bordered on something that one might be ashamed to call lunch due to the hour.  
Then again, their group had been the last to go to sleep, given as Bahorel and Courfeyrac – not without certain anxiousness - had waited for Marius and Gavroche to reappear, which they did, tired, but unscathed.  
From then on, it had been blissful hours of sleep and long hours of watching.  
Now however, in the light of day, the three felt thoroughly rested and met up around the large table in the center of the apartment to share a coffee and some of the bread that Gavroche had brought to them, slightly stale, but edible. Courfeyrac felt distinctively more settled after a good night of sleep.  
He tried to steer his thoughts not too close in the direction of Alexandre – that wound was still too fresh for anyone’s peace of mind – but if he avoided this line, one might almost think everything was alright.  
“So, that mystery lady of yours has turned into smoke as ghosts do in the morning?” Bahorel teased Marius as he helped himself to another round of bread.  
Marius shook his head.  
“Not quite into smoke”, he contradicted. “But yes. They have left Rue Plumet for another lodging of theirs, an apartment that apparently also belongs to her father. Down Rue de l’Homme Armée.  
“Fitting name after all that happened the last two days”, Courfeyrac commented between sips of coffee. “That should bode well for them. Or bad. However you look at it.”  
A hint of unease crossed Marius’ face as he looked back down to the delicate script that was Cosette’s letter, food forgotten on his table.  
“I have chased them away from their home”, he realized, belatedly. “I made them leave…”  
Courfeyrac only with difficulty refrained from rolling his eyes. Of course, there was some truth in Marius’ words, but it would not do to shove the young baron’s son further down that unproductive line of thought.  
“Now look Marius”, he therefore answered in what he hoped was a calm tone. “You don’t even know why she left. And if they did due to the incident, you should rejoice. They will probably be safer in their new lodgings. That assassin won’t know where they are.”  
“Still I’d like to see her safe”, Marius admitted, his eyes still fixed to the letter.  
“And lead him to her again? Come on, boy, you’re smarter than that. Before you do anything on that front, we need to get rid of the man whoever it is.” Courfeyrac silently thanked heavens for Bahorel’s lack of patience. “Once he’s out of the way you can continue to cheerfully moon over darling Cosette.”  
Marius, even though uneasy at the teasing, nodded slowly, admitting, that for once his friends might be in the right about something. With a world-weary sigh, he folded Cosette’s letter upon itself carefully and tucked it away in his vest, retrieving instead the rest of the mail that he had found to be pushed through under the door of his room in Boulevard de l’Hopital.  
He had taken them with him, seen as he did not know when he would go back home again, but had not yet found the time to read through them.  
That he now put himself to it, was at least a good sign of him trying to get to different thoughts.  
The first two letters were quickly skimmed, refolded, and set aside with a frown.  
The third, however, took longer. Marius read it, carefully, and Courfeyrac could have sworn that he paled slightly, the lines around his mouth turning tense and uneasy.  
“Bad news?” Courfeyrac asked, still holding his coffee cup in hand, and Marius took a few moments before he answered. His voice did not sound much like him at all, and this was a worrying thing.  
“Courfeyrac, Bahorel? I think you should read this.”  
His tone left any discussion out of the question, and Courfeyrac walked around the table quickly, taking a chair next to Marius so that he could peek over the young man’s shoulder.  
Bahorel was doing the same on his other side, and only a few minutes later, they understood and shared Marius’ concern to the fullest.  
The script was practiced and flowing, but not exceptionally so, a man of certain education, to be sure, but probably not one born and bred into a profession that required writing.  
Still the wording was tolerable. The content, however, was ugly.  
 _This is the account of a man that shall not be named._  
 _Rest assured, Monsieur, on the love of god and my life, that the words in this message contain the truth, and nothing but it, and while I have nothing but my word to show for it, I would beg you to consider it, at least, for the sake of your own life and peace of mind._  
 _There are things I know without being able to divulge whereof, and one of these things is that you are haunted, Monsieur. There is a man on your track, his mind intent on evil, and you need to be wary of him if you are to escape his paths._  
 _The name of this man is or was Alfonse Rebucy. He was born and raised in a small town in the north to a fisherman’s family with more children than they could support._

 

When she woke, it was to the sound of breathing.  
The black veils unraveled their secrets only reluctantly as consciousness returned, and Éponine slowly became aware of those parts of her surrounding that was accessible to her.  
Darkness did not recede as she opened her eyes, and realized that they were obscured with a piece of black cloth, rendering vision impossible and leaving her blind and helpless. Pain on her ankles and hands were telltale signs that she had been bound.  
Éponine fought down a bout of panic.  
For all the bad situations she had been in, this was a new one. Of course, she was used to trouble, but up to now she had only been faced with the sort of trouble that she could escape by running or fierceness. That was trouble she knew.  
This here, however, as innocent as it seemed to be as opposed to a dark street or angry shouts, seemed so much more dangerous.  
She needed to find out what was going on.  
Carefully, she checked her breathing, evened it out so that nothing in her should remind whoever was present of the fact that she was awake, and, like an eternity of two days back, when she woke up in the back room of the Café Musain, she began to sense her surroundings.  
She was lying on a bed or at least a mattress, remarkably soft compared to her usual sleeping arrangements. Her head was throbbing painfully.  
The same was true for her hands and feet. Éponine could not feel what was binding them – the fetters were tight enough for feeling to recede from her extremities, and careful fumbling with her fingertips brought about nothing – they were too numb to register any useful information.  
Fear warred with panic.  
But she was Éponine Thénardier. She knew her way around.  
She would find a way out of this.

 

“Who wrote this?” Courfeyrac asked when he had finished the first paragraph, a deep frown engraved on his forehead. “Do you have any idea where this is coming from?”  
Marius shook his head, slightly at loss at what to say.  
“I don’t know”, he confessed. “It is unsigned, as you can see, and the hand is unfamiliar to me. I don’t know if it was delivered with the usual mail – I might ask our landlord, he might know. I really have no idea where this is coming from.”  
“We seem to have attracted quite a lot of interest lately”, Bahorel remarked with a cocky smirk, apparently partly satisfied with these facts. Courfeyrac was intent to agree, but he did not utter the question at hand, for he was certain not to receive any senseful answer: Why did whoever it is write to you, Marius?  
 _Alfonse was a middle child, the fourth or fifth in a row of what must have been a dozen, a second son, and he passed an uneventful youth learning the trade of his father and of the father before him._  
 _However, be it the poverty and neglect or to a sickness of mind he was born with – as much at loath as I am to say that about anyone – at some time during his adolescence the young man has taken a turn for the wicked._  
 _At the age of about fifteen years, he was allowed to use the second, smaller boat of his family to drive out to sea on his own, after his brother, who had taken this occupation before him, died of an illness that is of no consequence to this account._  
 _This must have been where it began._  
 _He never turned out to be a very successful fisherman, much to his parents’ distress, but the reason for this was not a lack of skill, but rather a lack of determination._  
 _His newfound freedom young Alfonse used to follow a passion of his that one not born to it cannot understand._

 

Remembrance came back only slowly. She had been at the market and retreated slightly from the tinker’s stand she had been looking at to watch the further dealings of the vendor. Her questioning had not been very successful, and thus she had resorted to observation to find out how he was negotiating.  
It would give her the correct angle to work with him next time.  
She had seen an unexpected movement from the corner of her eye, and all her instincts had reacted with the right impulses but the slightest bit too late. She had recognized the face the moment before she was struck down, had recognized the man she had met two days ago, on the same market but under different circumstances.  
The man who had gifted her with the shoulder wound that had taken up angry throbbing again.  
And now she was lying in darkness, bound, disoriented and alone.  
Not quite alone, of course. There was the breathing.  
It was close to her, near her ear somehow, deep, eager breathing as if sleeping soundly or smelling a delicious dish.  
That last thought gave her pause. And let a shiver run down her spine.  
The breathing hitched, for just a moment, and Éponine froze, afraid that she had given away the fact that she was not sleeping any more, but if her captor had remarked anything he did not notice it. Instead, the breathing receded and the mattress shifted slightly as whoever it was got up and turned away, shuffling. It was disquieting to feel, that something within her hair shifted in the process.  
Éponine tried not to squirm.  
Only a moment later he returned, and she felt a strand of hair being lifted, long and heavy, and then there was a dry sound, and the weight fell back, a shifting feeling, and Éponine realized that something was wrong.  
And this time, she could not suppress the flinching.  
The response was another long-drawn breath.  
And then words.  
“Ah. You’re awake then.”

 

“The others must read this. Hell, Enjolras must read this. And probably Joly shouldn’t read this.”  
Absent-mindedly Courfeyrac realized that Bahorel had probably read more quickly than him. Yet, already the tone of what he had read convinced him that his friend could not be more right. This letter was like the window into a nightmare.  
“Yes”, he agreed. “We’ll be leaving for the Musain right away.”  
 _There is no easy way of saying this. There is no easy phrase, and so, if you can forgive me, I must be blunt._  
 _Alfonse Rebucy has become a monster. He thrives on the hunt of people, and he is merciless in his process. A victim chosen, he tails it with infinite patience. What spurs him on, I know not. But what I do know is that he is capable – and willing – of waiting out until the whole life of his victim is sprayed out before him. He investigates. He shadows._  
 _And then, one day, he kills._  
 _I do not know how many he killed. He has been convicted on the murder of two and the attempted of a third._  
 _Arianne Grère stemmed from a neighboring village. She was barely seventeen, a farmer’s daughter, in the prime of her beauty. It seems that she even knew him, had exchanged words with him, until one day she did not return from her daily chores, and she was found only six months after when the snow had cleared._  
 _I will spare you the details. This man has no pattern in his method of killing. It is of no consequence._  
 _Michèle Pointeau was only two years older, but infinitely less fortunate. She belonged to the lower classes, to those, who sell their bodies to the sailors that arrive._  
 _Apparently she has done the same to Rebucy and paid with her life for it._  
 _It was only later that we learned, that Rebucy was a regular in her environment, not so much having actually visited prostitutes, but more hanging about the establishments there. He had followed her for six months before the final blow, and when it came, it was merciless._

 

Éponine froze for a moment, being caught out. Terror threatened to grip her again – she was helpless, helpless, and all her instincts screamed in panic. There was no running now, no quick escape through the streets, no hiding in dark places.  
There was only her and him.  
Talk, she realized, was the only thing she could do for the moment, until she could think of something more senseful, more productive to do. In the meantime, the goal had to be to find out what the man wanted.  
Maybe this would show her a way out.  
“Who are you”, she asked roughly, and he stilled his breathing for a moment, and even the sounds of his movement ceased, one moment of perfect silence almost more terrifying than the shuffling before.  
“I have many names”, he answered smoothly. “They are not important.”  
His voice was strangely gentle, not very deep, but fairly agreeable, an even drawl but, as Gavroche had acutely pointed out, there was a rolling, slurring note in his speech, that hinted at dreary back streets and darker corners.  
Whatever this situation was, Éponine did not want to appear any weaker and more caught out than was absolutely inevitable.  
It did not seem wise to bait him overly, but given the situation she was in, Éponine figured that meekness would not improve her situation at all.  
She shifted around slightly to be able to lie on her back and answered with a slight sneer in her voice.  
“Some come to mind”, she replied drily, and then continued, “But it’s your choice. ‘Hey you’ it is, then. What do you want?”  
This earned her a laugh.  
“You”, he said, in a conversational manner that did nothing to soothe her nerves, “have stolen something from me.” A deep breath again. “It is only right that I take something in return, don’t you think?”  
Éponine felt herself go cold. The words of Enjolras and his friends came back to haunt her.  
And it reminded her of something.  
“I am a thief, I’m sure you know that”, Éponine spat out, out of pure spite, and to silence her own fearful thoughts. “What were you expecting?” She fletched her fingers to try and get some feeling back into them.  
She needed to get Enjolras’ knife.  
“Ah, yes.” His voice reminded Éponine uneasily of a cat stretching in the sun. “But so am I.”

 

“This is bad”, Courfeyrac commented the only thing that was going through his mind as he stared at the orderly script in front of him.  
“Beyond that”, Marius confirmed, shaking his head. “To think that I have led this monster to Cosette!” He shivered.  
“Count your blessings she’s away from that house”, Bahorel reminded. “When you told me about them running, I thought they were quite the skittish lot, but honestly, this here puts things in perspective.”  
“It does”, Courfeyrac confirmed, and read on. If what was written in this letter was any kind of true, things had become a lot more disturbing now.  
 _The third murder he failed to commit. Elizabeth Paulekerk was a dutch woman come to France to work, and she escaped him, not once, but twice._  
 _It is from her account that I draw my statements on his dedication._  
 _From what he told her during hours he held her captive – and again, Monsieur, I will spare you the details of it – he knew her every move and breath. Every secret he had pried of her by watching, by breaking into her house, by questioning her friends and relations._  
 _It was the account of Elizabeth Paulekerk, which allowed him to be convicted and sentenced to death._  
 _But there were more disappearances, more deaths up and down the coast while he was there, and they stopped when he left. I shiver to count, or to imagine what he must have done._

 

She had placed the knife into the belt of her skirt, half hidden beneath the folds of her blouse, on the left hand side, to be able to draw it easily.  
Éponine had never felt the need or inclination to knife-work. That had always been the domain of Montparnasse. She had rather resorted to running and clever talk, to schemes of avoidance and nimbleness. None the less, growing up basically at his side had left her not fully incompetent on the subject.  
If she could only get to that knife…  
Carefully she shifted her weight, lying on her back now, and she slightly propped herself up on heels and shoulders to subtly test with her arms the location that the knife was supposedly at.  
But where she had put it, there was only the cloth of skirt and chemise.  
Éponine felt an icy dread settling into her stomach. She was really helpless.  
A chuckle coming closer drew her attention back to the assassin. She clenched her fingers at his approach, tense to the last fiber of her body.  
“I took that one, sweet girl”, her captor said. “Wouldn’t have you hurt yourself why you are lying there.”  
“Why do you bring me here?” Éponine forced out between clenched teeth. “What do you want from me?”  
Again, something settled in her hair, and she realized it was a hand, running through the strands fanned out on the pillow.  
Éponine closed her eyes under the blindfold, concentrated on the sensation to be able to estimate where he was, and bid her time.  
“I want what you took from me. Enjolras would be dead, if not for you, and Pontmercy as well.”  
The bed shifted, as he probably sat next to her. About at the level of her hip. Good.  
So Enjolras had been the first target. Now, that Éponine knew so much more than two days before, it was not so surprising. And he was right in thinking she had saved his life.  
Somehow, it made their conversations during the last days less confusing. He was indeed in her debt. That was something she could accept and work with.  
If it ever came to that. For the implications of her captor’s words were clear as day.  
“I’m not as important as them”, she snapped back. “You win nothing by killing me. They won’t even notice.” That, at least, was probably as of yesterday a lie, and Éponine pushed aside any tumbling thoughts that threatened to come to the surface due to that.  
“That would matter to my friends”, the man said, and for the first time since this whole story began she had heard the confirmation that all of these events were indeed interlinked, the assassins in some way connected to one another. “Not to me. As far as I am concerned…”, and again the mattress shifted, and Éponine understood that he was bending forward, to actually bury his face in her hair. His voice was slightly muffled, and close to her ear.  
“… you are a very delicious kind of prey.”  
That did it. That last, so very disgusting statement had her panic overwhelming every good sense she still tried to maintain in this situation. Steeling herself, she quickly moved her head into the direction of his, with all the speed and strength she could muster, to hit something, anything on him and knock him out.  
The impact was severe and she felt stars between her closed eyes and tears of pain threatening, but her fear served her well and she continued, rising her feet to where she estimated him to be sitting and brought them down hard, aiming for the groin the best she could.  
His hiss of pain and the tumble from her bed indicated that she had at least in part been successful in her venture, but he was not unconscious. While she desperately tried to get up on her knees, remove the blindfold or any of the fetters that were holding her, he got back on his feet, and Éponine swayed, trying in vain to guess his position.  
She was of course at a tremendous disadvantage.  
Out of the blue, she felt a strike coming towards her temple, pain exploding as she collapsed, engulfed by a moment of panic.  
And then darkness.

 

While Courfeyrac was reading through the last lines of the letter, Marius and Bahorel were already donning their waistcoats in a hurry. They had to catch Enjolras and Combeferre at the Musain before they left for any kind of errand, and this news was too disturbing not to be shared with all of them.  
The moment of peace had, most certainly, not lasted.  
 _Why he is alive, I cannot say._  
 _All the advice I have to give is to watch the shadows around you, Monsieur. This man is as devious as he is patient, and he takes pleasure in many things that you and I would consider repellant._  
 _All I have to offer for protection is his name. Whatever he may have become, this is still a remnant of his past. And the knowledge of where he comes from and what sort of enemy it is you are facing._  
 _May god be with you, Monsieur, and watch you on your path._

 

“So this is where it happened? Quite the sordid corner of Paris that you have led me to, Prouvaire.”  
The man that stepped onto the small market at the side of Jean Prouvaire was significantly older than the young poet, but not old yet, in the middle of his thirties but looking significantly younger. A narrow face was framed by a set of fashionable, brown, short locks, well groomed but modest, as was the complete appearance of the man. A long straight nose and a narrow mouth completed the picture of a man that could be, with all right, described as looking both bourgeois and intellectual. Yet, the light in his eyes was that of slight irony as he took in his surroundings, the market, the hustle, the surroundings that distinctively were neither his nor that of his companion.  
“Ah, the charmingly romantic view of decay, my friend. I can imagine why you would like this place.”  
Beside the teasing, his words also had a slightly hard note to it, that did not go too well with the language he was speaking. He spoke the words with the proficiency and ease of long practice, but not with the smoothness of one born to it, and that was no wonder, for his mother tongue was, in fact, German.  
“We thought it perfectly suited for our task.” Jehan could not help to sound slightly defensive and ill at ease. He liked Heinrich Heine, the German poet-turned-newspaper-correspondent, who spent his time in the Paris salons keeping a confident finger on the pulse of the city, but the biting manner that the man was able to exhibit never failed him to put it on the edge.  
Heine laughed.  
“Don’t be offended, Prouvaire, I am only jesting, you know this.”  
He thoughtfully passed his cane from one hand to the other as his keen eyes continued to survey the market.  
“It seems a disquieting thought that someone out of these misérables would come out and strike at you out of the blue.”  
Prouvaire nodded and with a shudder remembered the fearful hours of two days ago, when they had been attacked and then fled.  
“Another story for your “Französische Zustände”, don’t you think?”  
Heine carefully weighed his head.  
“I am not sure, Prouvaire. You see, back in Augsburg, it will be difficult to judge all that is going on in this city at the moment, the shifts and turns of different fractions and ideas. To Germany, the July Monarchy is a republic, or as close as any of them can imagine it without turning to the Americas. I am not sure I could portray the picture in full if I tried. It has to be seen and lived… or maybe I have not found the words yet.”  
“I can hardly imagine that”, Jehan disagreed. The man wrote poems and articles not only in his mother tongue, but in French as well, and Jehan had no doubt of his eloquence. The reason, he suspected, for his reluctance was rather in the fact, that he had not fully taken a position with or against the July Monarchy yet. Jehan had worked on convincing the German for a while, but as of now, he had remained a cautious outsider to the whole discussion.  
As if guessing his thoughts, Heine continued.  
“Though, if what you suspect is true, it sheds quite a somber light on some parts of your administration. Le Globe is piping a similar tone, I believe.” He turned towards Jehan, a quizzical note in his clever eyes. “You are acquainted with the Cambouts as well, are you not?” he asked. “What is this? Enfantin seeing specters or something real? And is Le Cambout really dead?”  
Jehan nodded sorrowfully.  
“He is. I have it on authority of Madame de Cambout directly. And we have indeed reason to believe by the same source that attacked us here.”  
“Unfortunate.” Heine took a few steps into the market and left Jehan to follow. “And a shame about Cambout. He was a decent man…” The jest was gone from his voice, replaced by a thoughtful concern. “Ill news, Prouvaire, I fear. I think some careful listening will be required, if one is to make sense of this.”  
His voice trailed away and the two men wandered over the market, taking in the surroundings.  
The hustle was no different than any other day, shouts and haggles, discussions over goods and over daily issues, information exchange, and the general chaos of a poor market in Paris.  
Prouvaire and Heine walked over the market in relative silence, watching the scenery. Jehan did not interrupt the older man’s thoughts – he knew him well enough not to do this - and took in the scenery in curiosity.  
He allowed himself to get lost in his thoughts again, on the things that happened, and those, that still might come to pass. He was tired, having slept fairly little after yesterday’s meeting that had reached into the wee hours of the morning, and so his thoughts were slightly dazed.  
Which is why he only saw her when she was slamming into him.  
The impact almost tore him off his feet and he tumbled to the side, immediately aware of the impending danger of the moment – for the disaster two days ago had not started much differently – but he regained his footing fairly quickly. The person running into him had been small and light, and not intend on damage, but on speed.  
Still, as he looked at the girl that had fallen to the ground, sitting in the dirt of the market where the impact had pushed her to, he could hardly believe his eyes.  
For a moment, he was questioning his powers of observation. That particular hue of brown hair – while having made quite a lasting impression on him – was not exactly uncommon, and neither was a slim, skinny gamine, dressed in a threadbare chemise and fading skirt.  
It would have been a picture in thousands, if not for the eyes.  
They had caught and demanded his attention the day before, in Picpus, brown and wide and in expression far-off, and they had left an imprint he would have a hard time forgetting, even if he tried.  
But as she looked up to him in shock – flinching reflexively away from him, bringing up the unpleasant question of what sort of reaction she was expecting – he realized that something was tremendously wrong about her.  
Yesterday, she had seemed so lost in her own thoughts. She had had an air of fairy about her, a touch of another world, like a small, flighty spirit from a tale of centuries passed. The handmaiden of the lady of the lake, Melusine in the moonlight…  
It had been a fascinating, alluring picture under all the show and pretend of a gamine.  
All this was still there. But it was covered, hidden by the fact that her eyes were full of tears – and her cheeks were telltale signs that these were not the first to fall.  
And her expression wavered from scared to frantic.  
Had, at this moment, their mysterious attacker appeared to shove a dagger into his stomach, the impact could not have been more painful.  
“M… Mademoiselle”, he blurted out inelegantly, and she flinched, taking note, real note of him for the first time. Recognition flickered, and she retreated; scrambling over the floor as she fled a few inches back.  
She had been skittish yesterday, but this was worse. And yet, Jehan resorted to what had worked with her before. Slowly, he lowered himself into a crouching position, both hands open towards her in a gesture of peace. Her eyes wide, she watched his every move.  
Jehan took a deep breath to calm himself. He had had half a mind of going back to Picpus today in the hope of seeing her – she had proven herself to be quite unforgettable since yesterday – but now fate presented him with a different option.  
“I remember you”, he began softly, the words easier in this venture than in other dealings, as here, he was sure of his ground and path. “But I would not have wished to meet you again thus…” He gestured weakly to the tears on her cheeks, not daring to touch her for fear she would bolt. “Is there anything I can do? Are you hurt?”  
She mutely shook her head in what he guessed was a reflex, her eyes darting from her surroundings to him and back again. But Jehan was not deflected that easily.  
“What is wrong Mademoiselle?” He sought to apply his gentlest tone, the one reserved for things cherished, loved or scared, not closing in on her, but holding her gaze in the hope of reaching her.  
She hesitated for a moment. Her lips pressed together, as if to keep words in, her eyes darting about, she was an image conflicted as she still sat on the ground.  
“Mademoiselle”, he reiterated, and this got her attention, her eyes snapping back to his frightfully.  
“It’s… alright”, she answered, softly shaking her head without breaking the gaze, and he could tell that it was anything but this; however, her secrets were hidden behind a curtain of brown strands and fear. “I will just…”, and she made to get up, when he heard a voice, as if from far away.  
“Azelma?”  
He took a moment to realize that the voice was speaking to the gamine, and he understood it only by the quick turn of her head in direction of the sound, the spell broken. Only moments later, the man had caught up with him, almost a boy still. Brown hair under a dark blue cap and eyes of green, cool and calculating, the eyes of a man beyond his years by far.  
He was not dressed badly, given their surroundings, one of those better off on this market – a waistcoat and jacket, cheap cloth but tolerable cut - and Jehan had to admit he stroke a good-looking figure, in comparison with most of what was seen on this market.  
The man ignored him and shot straight to the girl, placing his hands on her shoulders with an ease of long familiarity. There was something frantic about his manner, his body coiled like a cat before the jump.  
“Azelma, where’s your sister?”  
She shook her head softly, eyes wide.  
“I don’t know”, she whispered, frightened and uncertain. “I only briefly turned and then she was gone…”  
He swore, in a manner that quickly betrayed exactly how much a disguise his attire was, and Jehan could not help flinching at the ferocity of it.  
“Come with me!”  
He took her at the arm, almost roughly, and a protest on Jehan’s lips died away as she followed more or less willingly, getting up with only a fleeting glance towards him between swaying brown strands. As an afterthought, the young man turned to him, and for a moment he caught a wild expression in his eyes before a smile – no, rather a sneer – wiped it all away in a moment of casualty.  
“You’ll excuse us, Monsieur. We have things to do.”, he said in a tone that clearly said he did not care at all, and then they were gone, disappearing into the crowd that had spit them out, mingling with their own.  
Slightly dazed, Jehan got up and looked into the direction they had vanished into.  
“My, my.” He almost flinched, having forgotten of his companion on this walk over the market. Heine stepped up to him and followed his gaze. “Who was that?”  
“Azelma”, Prouvaire replied, softly. “That’s all I know…”


	28. Like walking on broken glass

**Chapter 27: Like walking on broken glass**   
_"What you just told me, is that the whole truth?"_   
_"It's as close to the truth as you or anyone else will ever get.”_

  
The hammer finally fell when Marc and Stéphane had carefully maneuvered Jacques de Morier back into his own room, into his own bed.  
The silence that had engulfed the Cougourde after the death of Armand de Ribéron was still holding, and their friends had left quietly, each of them giving their own goodbyes to their fallen comrade. There had been tears, and silent words, but in the end they had left in small groups, as they had decided to do the day before; to get a minimum of sleep.  
Marc Lamarin had stayed behind with Jacques and Stéphane to give an account of yesterday’s events, and especially the meeting in the Café Musain. The strain of the day was clearly showing on Jacques, whose skin had taken on a stronger hue of pallor again, but he was still listening attentively, the force of his eyes holding Lamarin in place.  
The expression on his face was unreadable, and slightly warped by fever, yet, the tone of his voice could not be mistaken so easily for anything else than a mixture of spite and anger.  
“Quite satisfied with yourself, are you?”  
Lamarin blinked in surprise. Whatever he had expected in response to the – actually encouraging – account from what had happened during the night; rejection had not been one of them.  
“I’m sorry…?” He blurted out at the second odd commentary that Jacques had given him since the death of Armand that he could not make sense of.  
Jacques eyes him unblinking.  
“You heard me”, he responded deadpan.  
“I did”, Lamarin confirmed, confusion rising again. “But… I am not sure I understand.”  
“Listen, Jacques…”, Stéphane tried to intercept, but one glare from the man brought him to silence again, all words quenched by the burning anger in his eyes.  
Lamarin realized he was on his own.  
“Don’t play stupid with me. Let me remind you, that you only joined us… what was it? Two months ago? If it’s even that much. And next I know you are playing at representative in a general council of revolutionaries. Craftily played, Marc, indeed.” Jacques snorted in something that was probably a mixture of anger and disgust and Lamarin for a moment was at loss of what to say.  
“But…”, he began and Jacques raised a dark eyebrow, almost to the line of locks plastered to his forehead by sweat.  
“But…”, he echoed with a nasty tone in his voice. “But what?”  
“But you weren’t there”, Lamarin finally defended himself. “And neither was Joseph. Someone had to…”  
“Joseph!” Jacques snapped. “That would have been most precious on top of everything.” His eyes quickly went to Stéphane who narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but was spared another explosion for the time being.  
“You weren’t there”, Lamarin responded, again. Jacques anger was a terror to behold, but he did not want to wither at the first sign of oppression. Also, he felt slightly shocked at the ferocity of an attack he hadn’t seen coming. “Something needed to be done.”  
“There were how many of you exactly there? No one had the idea of sending someone here?”  
“To do what, Jacques?” Lamarin shook his head in exasperation. “You can hardly walk from one room to the other.”  
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Marc understood that they were a capital mistakes, but words were not so easily taken back.  
Jacques’ eyes and face went completely still.  
“Aha”, he said. “Continue.”  
Lamarin shook his head. Looking at Jacques, again he had the recollection of a back room in a café, a group of friends moving amongst each other like limbs of a single body, a family, for lack of a better word for it, a family and a set of companions.  
As opposed to Stéphane and himself, sitting here and getting yelled at by Jacques, when everything that Lamarin would have wanted was to share the news – both on the council and on Armand’s dying words – but now that opportunity had passed and all things considered, Jacques was probably beyond caring at the moment.  
Lamarin wondered, how the Cougourde that only a few days ago had seemed such an exciting and interesting place had at the turn of his head been warped into something that was eating itself up from its core.  
“I don’t have to listen to this, Jacques”, he finally managed, feeling equally terrified at the stare the man was giving him and horrified at the fact that he was attacking him so. “I was trying to help. I was trying to make things better, which I thought was the whole purpose of this group!”  
He retreated a step, then a second.  
“I meant no harm. And I certainly did not mean to take what was yours. But we did cast a vote. I thought all of this was also about bringing about a republic. I did not ask for this. I didn’t want to be elected but I took the responsibility on the account of my friends, of your friends. I only tried to help.” He was rambling, he was repeating himself, but he was also beyond caring.  
“I don’t have to listen to this”, he reiterated. “And I won’t.” He lifted his head to Stéphane, who stared at the unfolding scene in horror. “Stéphane, if you need to, you know where to find me.”  
And then, there was nothing else to say.  
Marc Lamarin turned around on his heel and left the sickroom, terrified, angry and sad in roughly equal parts. He stepped out of the Necker into the streets, and, forgetting the advice given during the previous night, passed through Saint Michel on his own, towards the only place that he could imagine going now.  
The Café Musain.

 

Silence settled in the Musain, after Marius had finished reading the letter to his friends, his voice unsteady but determined, and Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchanged a silent look.  
“Cheerful.” With little surprise, it was Grantaire who first found his voice, lounging slightly aside the rest of the group, his slightly smile going into the direction of Enjolras and Combeferre who had peered over Marius’ shoulder on either side while the Baron’s son was reading out loud.  
Courfeyrac, who had learned about the words a second time now, took them easier this time, and still it was hard not to shiver at the images that they brought forth with ease.  
“Hardly”, commented Enjolras, but his retort towards Grantaire lacked the usual bite, and the frown on his face showed clearly that his thoughts were three steps already, as they usually were and all the more that the times turned more hectic.  
“At least”, Combeferre added, much more softly, “now we know. That is never a bad thing.”  
“Who did you say this was coming from again, Marius?”  
“I have no idea”, Marius replied, shrugging slightly helplessly. “They said it was a gamin who delivered it, but from that description, there is no finding the boy.”  
Courfeyrac made a mental note to ask Gavroche about it none the less. There was no telling what sort of information the boy was capable of digging out.  
With a frown, Combeferre took the letter from Marius, turned it with a predictable expression of both curiosity and worry in his eyes. Courfeyrac did not begrudge him that expression. The letter was indeed something that even he could not find a bright side to.  
“The paper is good”, Combeferre mused, squinting at the script. “A man of education, but none who attended university. Not too young I would say.” He shrugged. “But apart from that, the origin of the letter is anyone’s guess.”  
“The question remains”, Courfeyrac concluded, “with all that is written in here, why is such a man out of prison?”  
“Why is he even alive?” Marius added. “What’s written in there – and apparently it has become known if he was arrested for it – is enough to put any man to the guillotine.”  
“I fear the answer is obvious”, Enjolras answered, stepping away from Marius to reach a position where he could look all his friends in the eye in turn. “The suspicion we have had is all but confirmed true. This is not just a band of renegades. This…”, and his hand went pointing to the letter that was still in Combeferre’s hand, “is all but the proof that someone inside the administration itself is behind this.”  
“I would not call it proof yet”, Combeferre contradicted, giving Marius back the letter. “At least not proof in the sense of the law – which is clear – but also probably not proof enough to go public with it. Especially now we should be cautious.” His gaze, almost involuntarily, went to the pile of newspapers that was lying discarded on a table. Enjolras nodded.  
“It’s enough to carefully conduct investigations.” Courfeyrac had been thinking about this already on their way here. “There is quite a lot of information to go on, actually. The names of the three women. The mention of the coast, and the fact that it happened in the north. Now I know that our links to the northern part of the country are feeble at best, but such a thing must have been remarked. There should be accounts on this, maybe newspapers. In the very least, people themselves should remember. So maybe if we can nose around here in the city, among those who have recently moved in from the northern provinces, we may be able to narrow this down.”  
“That is a good thought, Courfeyrac”, Enjolras praised in his offhand manner. “And one of the things we shall put into action as soon as we can. I seem to remember…” he began, but he never got to finish the sentence, as quick steps from outside the Café drew their attention to the entrance.  
The Café, due to yesterday’s late hour, was not yet officially open for business, but the front door was not locked and the visitor didn’t mind.  
Pushing through the door, cheeks reddened by what obviously was a long and hasty trip through the city, was Marc Lamarin.  
He was still in the same clothes he had worn the day before, now rumpled and at a few places stained with the traces of old blood. His slightly feverish gaze and the red lining under his eyes together with the distinctive pallor of his skin gave indication that he had not gotten an hour of rest since he had left the Musain in the wee hours of this morning, and both the fact that he had appeared alone and the state that he was in were no good sign.  
Courfeyrac stood.  
By his accounts, Marc Lamarin was a decent fellow, a trifle young still but a good man in the making. And it was clear that he had come here for some kind of support – a support that would, of course, be willingly granted.  
“Lamarin”, he offered, tempering his voice for calm and friendliness instead of the worry he felt. “Good lord, you look as if you have run half across the city!”  
The boy gulped for breath, as Courfeyrac gently steered him towards a table, discreetly monitoring to Bahorel to organize a glass of wine for the boy so that he might calm down.  
“I have”, Lamarin answered between gasps, but offered nothing more, and Courfeyrac waited until the wine had arrived and the boy had caught his breath before any questions would be issued. He had placed Lamarin at one of the larger tables though, and his other friends crowded around it as well, so there would be no long stalling of whatever had brought them here.  
“Were you alone?” Of course it was Enjolras who finally lost patience first, and of course he went straight to the fact that the advice they had given in the assembly of always moving in at least twos or threes was sorely unheeded at the moment.  
Lamarin nodded though, and took a large gulp of wine.  
“I….”, he broke off again, and Courfeyrac could sense something conflicting coming from the man, as his gaze went to the glass, uncertain.  
But finally, he took a deep breath and lifted his eyes again, now clearer and less torn, as if he had come to a decision.  
“All right”, he said, uneasily. “I am not even sure if I should come to you with this, but I don’t know how to proceed with what happened, and I am not sure I can trust my own friends any more. Which is why I come to you.”  
That statement captured everyone’s attention. Courfeyrac could see Combeferre subtly tensing, while Enjolras shifted his stance from one of almost absent-minded detachment to alertness, placing a finger against his bottom lip as he fixed Lamarin with a cool, blue stare.  
“How so?” he asked.  
Lamarin took a deep breath.  
“How much do you know about the Cougourde? About the Paris section, anyhow?”  
Bahorel, having brought his own wineglass with that of Lamarin’s, snorted.  
“I guess what you mean is Jacques and Joseph, right?”  
Marc Lamarin sighed.  
“Yes. They… carry on a certain rivalry. I have noticed it before, but it became apparent to me only recently how strong that rivalry is.” Now that he started, words began to flow as if on their own accord. “It is almost as if there are two groups, not one, only using the same name. I never thought much about it, until…” he broke off for a second and looked around the room, the intent faces of those he was talking to, and Courfeyrac did his best to give him an encouraging nod so that he would continue. “… well, until I was here actually. I’ve thought about it since then, and I’ve realized, that actually everyone, everyone in the Cougourde has at some point in time taken sides with one of them.”  
Courfeyrac felt a brow rising. The feeling had crept upon him during the meeting of yesterday that the Cougourde was a curiously quiet crowd, but he had attributed that to the fact that the blood toll on their side had been heavy – although in injuries, not in death – and not necessarily to the fact that a rift was going through the group.  
A quick gaze at Bahorel told him that he, at least, had known about this, and it was also him who asked the obvious question.  
“What about you?”  
“That’s the point”, Lamarin continued. “Well, actually one of the points. I haven’t yet. I didn’t even realize it in full yet. Although now, in retrospective, there have been conversations… with Jacques mostly. I didn’t think much of it then but reconsidering now, I guess that Jacques counts me among his. Which would actually explain quite a lot…”  
He blinked quickly, and for a moment Courfeyrac felt reminded of Jehan in the manner of the young man, whom he had as of now thought a bit careful and shy. Now that he seemed to have come to a decision of sorts, words were spilling forth without apparent effort.  
“One thing at a time, Lamarin”, Combeferre reminded him gently, and the young man nodded, pushing fingers through his hair and taking a deep breath collecting his thoughts.  
“Like I said, there is a rift going through the Cougourde between Joseph Sicar and Jacques de Morier. For all I knew, Joseph Sicar has left for Aix less than a week ago, called home on family matters, I believe. Jacques was wounded in the attacks in Issy, but he is still alive. Armand de Ribéron, however, is not.”  
The words were delivered in strange sobriety, but as soon as they were out Lamarin seemed to remember himself what he had said and what he had witnessed, and tears were threatening to find their way into his eyes. He blinked hastily, shaking them away, but there was a slight tremble in his voice as he continued: “He passed away this morning.”  
Bahorel let out a swear but checked himself quickly, only outward sign of his exasperation the vehemence with which he downed his wine.  
“Far too many good people going down in this story”, he growled. “About time we stopped this.”  
“I agree”, Enjolras answered without straying in his gaze from Lamarin. “My condolences, Lamarin.”  
The boy nodded, fighting for composure, and Courfeyrac decided that it would probably be best to bring him back on the track of his tale.  
“But that was not why you came here, was it?”  
Lamarin shook his head.  
“I…”, he began again, “I was able to catch his dying words. And in his last hour, Armand told me that he had actually seen Joseph at the fair in Issy where the attacks occurred.”  
“And you believe him”, Enjolras phrased a question in form of a statement, and despite having Enjolras’ gaze on him slight annoyance crept into Lamarin’s voice.  
“They were his dying words”, he reiterated. “Of course I believe them!”  
If Enjolras caught the young man’s anger he did not show it. A nod was his only response to Lamarin’s words.  
“A traitor!” None of them had been sure if Grantaire had even been following the discussion, ill-tempered and hung-over as he was, but they had, quite apparently, been wrong, for he clapped his hands onto the table now in something that could be easily mistaken for glee. “Isn’t that priceless? The most dedicated among the dedicated, and then they squabble and betray one another like children in the garden. So that’s what you have?”  
Enjolras’ gaze whipped around to Grantaire, blue eyes piercing.  
“If you have nothing helpful to say on the subject”, he bit out, “I would rather you stay silent.”  
Grantaire answered with a smirk.  
“Scared your paper house is on fire?”  
Enjolras gave a minuscule shake of his head.  
“I do not expect you to understand any of this.”  
“Bah”, Grantaire waved an impatient hand. “Evasion, fearless one. Evasion and negation. What a laugh I am having. Look at you. Have you ever asked yourself why all of this happened? Have you? It’s because man is bad. Deal with it. Man is a lousy, dreary, selfish thing, but that is what you fail to see. You have a traitor in your rows. Maybe more than one. So now, where are you, with all your talk of liberty? You have the snake, and it is resting right at your chest. Joseph Sicar and who else, we can only guess.”  
Enjolras’ lips were pressed together, and his eyes were seething, showering Grantaire in cold fire and flame.  
“Be silent, drunkard”, he said, coldly, no scorn in his voice, just a dark, icy whisper, “if you have nothing except spite in your words. I have not…”  
“Enjolras, that leads us nowhere. Grantaire – same words. But with more vehemence.” Courfeyrac kept his voice light, but the attempt to stop the escalation before it went too far was actually quite desperate. Unfortunately it was the best opportunity he had. Predictably, Enjolras’ head whipped around to him and Courfeyrac found himself subject to the same angry glare that had just been directed at Grantaire, yet, while this was no easy feat, he withstood the gaze with the experience of years. Grantaire, snorting in anger, fell mercifully silent. “I’m not sure”, he continued, “that this is the place and time to have that discussion. Actually we have no idea yet what is going on with Joseph Sicar – although if Armand was correct, it’s certainly worth a question – and we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”  
“Neither of us”, Combeferre added, with a warning look in Grantaire’s direction, but the drunkard only snorted and averted his gaze. “Which is why – again – we have to find out more.”  
“One question remains, though.” Enjolras had demonstratively turned his back to Grantaire while the man was reaching for a bottle – the first of the morning – and was now focusing Lamarin again, the anger suppressed, but not vanished. “Why are you coming to us and not to Jacques? He should enjoy hearing this about his rival.”  
“Possibly”, Marc Lamarin answered with a shrug, and for a moment, he looked like a young boy again, holding a grudge. “But he’s too occupied with being angry at me.”  
Courfeyrac frowned. “At you!” he exclaimed, exasperated. It was indeed difficult to imagine fury being directed to the agreeable being that was Marc Lamarin. “Whatever for?”  
Another shrug was the answer before Lamarin continued.  
“I wish I knew. What he was implying was that I had tried to acquire a position of authority inside the Cougourde, exploiting his current weakness.” He shook his head at the thought, but before he could continue, Enjolras exploded.  
“He can’t be serious about that!”  
The fact only that he had taken up Lamarin’s suspicion immediately told Courfeyrac, that he indeed thought this possible, despite his disbelieving words.  
Courfeyrac knew little only of the Cougourde; his dealings with them had been far and in-between, but Enjolras had spent some time with them, and if he thought Jacques de Morier’s reaction within the realm of the possible, Courfeyrac was inclined to believe him.  
And that did not exactly paint a pretty picture.  
Enjolras meanwhile had pushed back his chair and gotten up, taken to furious pacing in the room.  
“This is preposterous”, he murmured, “and comes at the most inconvenient time. Ambition, greed, as if we had time for these foolish notions right now.”  
He hesitated in his stride, thought for a moment, and then turned back again to the assembly before him.  
“All right”, he said. “That settles it then.” And he galvanized into action and planning, from one second to the next without apparent transition.  
“Combeferre, Marius. You are of us those who have most been in contact with Le Globe. Go to their headquarters and try to calm down the uproar that must be going on there if that latest newspaper edition is any inclination. Be sure that they stay out of the direct line of fire at least until everything has settled a bit. Courfeyrac, Lamarin. You’re coming with me.”  
“Gladly”, Courfeyrac replied with grandeur. “Where are we going?”  
“To the Necker. We will talk some sense into Jacques de Morier. This cannot be allowed to continue. It’s jeopardizing everything we are currently planning and fighting for. It needs to be stopped. Now. Bahorel, can I ask you to stay here and remain a point of contact for those that are not there yet?”  
The dandy made a face.  
“And miss out on your discussion with Jacques?” He barked a laugh. “That will not happen. Luison can stay point of contact just as well, don’t you think? We’re coming with you to see that, eh Grantaire?”  
“It is certainly not the purpose to have a spectacle, Bahorel.” Enjolras’ voice was biting, but Grantaire laughed at his words.  
“Ah yeah, that will be glorious”, he chuckled. “Apollo and Thanatos. It will be a sight to see.”  
The discussion was rapidly spiraling downwards, and Courfeyrac exchanged a quick glance, slightly helpless, with Combeferre, who shrugged and ran his hands through his hair in an attempt to clear his thoughts.  
“The valid point of Bahorel’s proposal may be”, Combeferre finally intercepted before Enjolras could again flare up at any of the two, “that this goes, as you correctly pointed out, beyond a discussion between you and Jacques de Morier. Apart from the fact, that Jacques may have been slightly incautious in his statements towards Marc Lamarin, there is also the matter of Joseph Sicar. If what Lamarin tells us it is true, we may be looking at more than just an outburst of personal interests there, Enjolras. If supporters of Joseph are there, and our worst suspicions come true, we may be looking at the face of the enemy. I would really feel calmer in going to Le Globe – where I will be among friends; incautious friends maybe, but friends – if I knew you were going to meet Jacques in greater numbers.”  
Courfeyrac would have cheered for Combeferre’s words, had that not spoiled the effect of them. He was not certain how much of them were said to ease the tension that had sprung up in the room, and how much because he believed in them, but normally, with Combeferre, one went with the other, and so Courfeyrac just nodded.  
“He’s actually right, Enjolras”, he added more weight to the statement, and the fact, that Enjolras was pressing his lips together in anger made clear, that he saw both the reason behind Combeferre’s words and the second intention. However, he did not argue. The warning look he gave to both Bahorel and Grantaire on the other hand was unambiguous.  
Before things could take a turn for the worse again, Courfeyrac pushed himself to his feet with vehemence.  
“All right”, he said, seeing that most of those that had assembled around the table, followed suit. “Let’s go then.”

 

Over the course of the last year, Joly had become an expert in the judgment of the small signs and portents that heralded the shifts and glitters of the moods that were so intrinsic to the elusive being that was Musichetta.  
Her voice, being the opera singer she was, was a tool of a special kind, reflecting and illustrating her moods like her face never did. It reached into the warm, soothing lows of content, a vibration that was almost a purr, a tone reserved for lazy mornings and rare moments of calm. The breathtaking heights were for the reprimands, the sudden flashes of anger that would wash over him unexpectedly, irritation called forth by a wrong word, a wrong movement, a wrong flash of light.  
She was in the middle ranges, though, as she opened the door to them in the beginning of the afternoon, with only the slightest hint of a pitch, and that was as good a sign as he would probably get.  
She was not prepared for the evening yet, wearing a reddish dress of simple cut and good fabric, her dark hair curled and pinned up, not in the elaborate style she would apply on stage, but in a rather simple bun. Her dark eyes under long lashes were sparkling already.  
“My two favorite men in the world.” She was capable of saying such things without a second thought, Joly mused, not knowing what it did, and the smile accompanying it was a weapon in itself. “An honor, as always.”  
She allowed them to enter, in such a different gesture than the morning before, when she had quickly cut them off at the door – complying with the request of lending a dress of hers to Madame de Cambout, but openly showing her discontent with high trills.  
Her apartment was a tidy affair, slightly shabby, but carefully arranged, with delicate, beautiful furniture that had – as Joly knew – been gifts of some of her patrons.  
Of which she had many. Alas.  
This day, however, she was on her own, and offered them a seat at the table in the middle of the room, placed on a carpet of bright colors, while she rummaged through the contents of the two baskets. Joly recognized Le mariage de Figaro in her voice and could not help smiling.  
Musichetta in a good mood was a beautiful thing.  
Bossuet, sitting at the head of the table, and within his peripheral vision, gave him an encouraging twinkle, and Joly felt some of the tension of the last days drop away in a moment’s breath.  
“So, I hope I could be of use to that good lady of yours?”  
“Madame de Cambout?” Bossuet sighed. “Ah yes, as much as can be expected for the moment, I am afraid. She is holding up admirably, but the circumstances are dire, I can imagine.”  
Something crossed Musichetta’s face that Joly found hard to place. Sympathy? Sadness?  
“It’s never easy, is it?” she said, her voice slightly subdued, high pitches exchanged for the warmer tones of a mezzo. A frown had found its way on her face, as if some deep thought were bothering her thoroughly. “Not if she is on her own now.”  
“She has her family”, Joly, said as calmly as possible, as Musichetta found her way back to the table to have a seat and distribute the cut Kougelhoupf, that Madame de Cambout had supplied. He wondered what they were actually talking about. There was never just a single line of thought with Musichetta. “And she is not friendless.”  
“Well, there’s that…”  
She appeared thoughtful as she picked at her slice of the cake with nimble fingers, and he wondered what was going through her mind, when she shook it off with a shrug and the smile shone again on her features as she looked to the cake. “Good to know then. If this is the result of me being of assistance, she is welcome to my wardrobe any time.”  
Bossuet laughed.  
“We will tell her that”, he replied. “I’m sure she will appreciate it.”  
“I hope so”, Musichetta answered and began to eat the piece of cake for earnest, while following her trail of thought. “So, tell me, what is behind this whole story?”  
Joly told her of the main events – smoothing over the more sordid and dangerous parts, of course, that she had no business or inclination knowing. Like this, he absently remarked, it almost sounded like an adventurous tale, exciting and heady. Romantic, Jehan would have said, but only as long as one did not remember the dead look in Madame de Cambout’s eyes, the almost catatonic fear of Marc Lamarin or the feeling of dread that now gripped them every time they turned around a darker corner, as much as they had tried to fight it.  
Joly had always known that battles would come. The knife in the dark, however, was a much more difficult enemy to stomach.  
Musichetta, being who she was, took up both what he said and what he did not say and made a face, looking at Bossuet and Joly in turns.  
“You will promise me to watch out for those knifes, will you?” she asked and Joly was warmed by the concern in her voice and gaze. Low tones. Almost like in the mornings.  
He barely refrained from closing his eyes.  
“We will do our best, Mademoiselle”, Bossuet stepped in with ease and grandeur, with a smile and a twinkle, and a casual wave of his hand. “Knowing my luck, though…”  
She laughed.  
“Knowing your luck, you will be the man to find one of those assassins, and likewise knowing your luck someone would step in and take him out for you, so you would not even get the praise for it.”  
“Ah yes”, Bossuet replied, with a heavy sigh. “That would be gruesome indeed.”  
“I have a feeling you would live”, Musichetta gave back again, her piece of cake vanished now while Bossuet was still holding his in his hands and Joly’s lay untouched before him.  
“That’s encouraging, then”, Bossuet answered with a bow, that looked slightly ridiculous, given the fact that he was sitting. “Your faith in me is inspiring.”  
She answered with a laugh, but as it faded she placed her chin on her folded hands and looked at the two in turn.  
“You will watch out a bit on yourselves for me, will you?”  
Her tone was light – mezzo again, no heights, no lows, the middle ground of an even mood. But something in her eyes put Joly on the edge, and he reached for his cane, unconsciously, turning it in his hands under her scrutiny.  
“We will as far as we can, Musichetta.” And then, with a smile, he dared a step further. “I will.”  
“Good”, she answered, and held his gaze for a second, before she turned away again. “Anything else would be really a shame.”


	29. Kindred spirits of a diverse kind

**Chapter 28: Kindred spirits of a diverse kind**

_"You see. It's like I always say, you can get more with a kind word and a 2-by-4, then you can with just a kind word."_

From the outside the house was fairly unremarkable, the ugly duckling amidst the beautiful houses that lined both sides of the Boulevard des Italiens.

While built in red bricks and still relatively new it had only little decoration to it, unlike the carved facades and painted walls of the mansions surrounding. Yet, standing between them, fitting into the line of representative buildings, the house retained a quiet sort of dignity.

Combeferre remembered that Hélène had once likened it to the figure of Benjamin Franklin, ambassador of the young American republic before the revolution. Reports had quoted him to be a quiet man among the glitters and glimmers of the court, simple in dress and demeanor, and yet in his modesty and prudence a force to be reckoned with.

Such were the headquarters of Le Globe on the noble premises that was the Boulevard des Italiens.

The building was reminding of that of a factory, three stories high with large windows, slightly blinded but carefully cleaned; no decoration or pomp but beauty in functionality itself.

Combeferre had taken a moment to brace himself before he entered, and avoided to meet the curious gaze of Marius. The door was in heavy, carved wood, not locked but creaking as he opened it, as if the headquarters were only reluctantly giving entrance to the intruders.

Passing the door, one arrived at a small antechamber, in which sat Madame Iveron, a sturdy woman of roughly thirty years who, together with her husband, served as groundkeeper and concierge of the building. In her lap, there was the eternal knitting set that she was never seen without. It was a scarf today, of brown and red wool, with intricate patterns of a certain crude beauty.

Laurent, her six-month-old youngest son, was calmly sleeping in a cradle nearby.

Madame Iveron raised her head to look at the entering students but let them pass with a tight smile and a nod, replying to their greeting with a mumble of her own. Combeferre, having witnessed the occasion, knew that nothing short of direct violence could move her to grant passage against her will, but he had been a resident of this place for a long time already and was welcome on his own accord.

Behind another set of two doors they entered the heart of Le Globe.

 

 

The first part of the hall reached over the whole range of three stories, far up revealing the interworking of the wooden roof and beams. The hall itself was flooded with light, now that the summer sun found its way into it, and six large printer machines stood side by side, currently still calm. Combeferre knew that they would awaken by nightfall, when the activity in the rest of the building ceased.

The rest of the building that was the second part of the hall occupied roughly one third of its total and was divided into a part two stories high and an upper floor that could be reached by means of a wide, wooden staircase.

The lower part was occupied by a number of compartments. There sat a bunch of young men, composing articles, editing drafts, setting the prints of those works that were approved already. Along the windows, in a slightly separated chamber that they could not see from the main hall, Combeferre knew that Pierre Berat and his minions would be working.

Combeferre had sat at one of those tables more than once since he had agreed to spend part of his time working for the newspaper, but this was not where they headed today.

Climbing the staircase to the upper part, Combeferre and Marius headed for the heart of Le Globe.

They were assembled in the main room, a compartment that had retained the distinct feeling of a salon or even a British club.

Sofas and armchairs were grouped in a rough circle, and a small assembly of tables about.

They were all there.

Michel Chevalier, a man of longish face, large eyes and a perpetual frown on his face, was bowing over an article together with Olinde Rodrigues. Hélène, leaning with her back against a windowsill, had apparently followed the discussion alertly, yet her posture belied that she had neither inclination to interfere nor had previously done so.

Their entrance made her look up, and all hope that Combeferre had harbored dashed at the expression in her eyes.

They could have been strangers. There was a nod and the slightest of relaxation of posture, but she did not even give him the gift of a smile.

She started to say something, but predictably, Barthélemy Enfantin was quicker. He was closer in age to Rodrigues than Chevalier, and had a deceptively paternal air about him that did not fool Combeferre.

"Combeferre. Pontmercy." His greeting was cordial but his eyes were wary. He had been smoking a pipe, but he removed it now, watching the newly arrived with suspicion. "An unparalleled pleasure."

The mood in the room was a curious one, not at all like what Combeferre had come to expect from this place. It took a moment to place the notion as he took in the details, trying to discern what was wrong.

A can of coffee stood on a table, cups around it half full, and the marble ash tray showed that, as usual, Michel Chevalier had indulged in a number of cigarettes since their work here had begun. Drafts and pens were lying about everywhere, articles in the making, and in quickly skimming the scripts Combeferre recognized the typical mixture of science, politics and the foundations of Saint Simonianism that was the heart of Le Globe's writings. No sign of another impending catastrophe yet, but Combeferre was aware that this particular devil would hide in detail.

The revelation of what was wrong came suddenly. It was the quiet.

At any other given time, Chevalier and Rodrigues would not have stopped their debate for more than a quick nod and a greeting. Enfantin would not have exhibited friendliness but exuberance.

And Alexandre, finally, would have inevitably drawn them into the brawl, asking their opinion on something, questioning them about their day, the latest antiques of "the pear" or the newest petition in the congress.

But today, nothing but deadly silence.

"Has something happened?"

Hélène finally spoke before the silence became too oppressive, unfolding her arms, a frown plastered on her even features that Combeferre in a moment took for worry before it vanished behind a façade of stone again.

"That depends", Combeferre answered. "Things have been tense, as you know."

"We know." Enfantin still held his pipe in his hand, the sweet smell of smoke wavering towards him. Combeferre refrained from inhaling deeply. A bit of tobacco certainly would have a soothing effect on him, but he had not brought his pipe with him. "After the death of Alexandre, nothing is the same again."

"Have a seat, both of you." Chevalier was finally finding his voice and manners again though this was certainly an unusual quality in him if immersed in an article, but Combeferre took the invitation and placed himself into one of the armchairs. Marius followed, nervously taking up one of the draft articles that were lying there.

"The progress on tomorrows edition is tolerable, I presume?" Combeferre cautiously asked into the room, carefully not addressing anyone in particular.

"Given the circumstances." It was Rodrigues who took it upon himself to answer. "We cannot complain. Most of the articles have been delivered, we are just missing two of younger freelancers who have undertaken a trip into the Saint Germain suburb, but they have already arrived here and are in the process of finishing up."

Combeferre nodded.

"Good."

They were dancing around the real subject standing between them like an invisible wall. Combeferre looked at the newspaper editors that had been his friends and allies for so long.

Inevitably, he ended with Hélène.

Looking into her eyes, Combeferre searched for the woman he knew and did not find her. She had crossed her arms before her chest in a defensive gesture, and her gaze was closed, challenging almost, chin proudly raised.

There was nothing that could have transmitted better just how hurting she was, and for all his experience, for all his knowledge, Combeferre had no idea how to console her. What did one say to comfort a woman that had just lost her beloved husband? What did one say if one was in a position like his?

He wondered if he had made a mistake by coming here.

Something must have shifted in his face, his thoughts betrayed to her, and for a moment her eyelids twitched, batted once, twice, more quickly and out of their normal rhythm. The slight hitch in her breathing was the clearest telltale sign that she was swallowing whatever was threatening to break free. And then she looked away.

He cleared his throat, by no means certain that he would be able to speak, but miraculously he could, finding words in the process.

"I was wondering if tomorrow's edition will by anything like today's."

The reactions were predictable.

A collective, breathless sigh exerted from Chevalier and Rodrigues, while Hélène's head whipped around towards him, eyes blazing.

And Enfantin took it upon himself to answer.

"Bold, wasn't it? Quite the acid feather Madame has displayed there." He was giving a slight, praiseful nod of his head towards Hélène who did not return his gaze. "A willing testament to our dear departed colleague, I would say. A better funeral speech was never given."

"It was moving", Combeferre levelly replied, turning towards Enfantin and leaving Hélène to her own devices for the moment. "And I agree that the feather of Madame de Cambout is something to be reckoned with. But…" he turned back to Hélène, "Madame, was that wise? Sorrow, I hate to say, is never the wisest counselor. And while your words were…", he fumbled for a description for a moment, a word that would tell her how well he had understood her without revealing the same issue to her colleagues and finally settled for, "… intense, they were also very open. More open than anything we have done before."

"We have been under attack, Monsieur." Now Hélène spoke up, her voice rougher than yesterday but clear and firm. "As have you. By killing Alexandre, whoever is wearing the face of these attackers has declared war on us. And we will not have it."

"Indeed we will not!" Enfantin was roused, his pipe forgotten, as his blazing eyes were flaring at Combeferre in a righteous fury. "This is the reason for the article Monsieur, that – I understand – you in all your tempered caution probably did not like very much. But this is an hour of action, and words are our weapons. We shall call out the darkness of this viper's nest into the world."

"Barthélemy…", Rodrigues intercepted, keeping his tone tempered. "We know all this. We have discussed it yesterday. And still Monsieur Combeferre does raise a valid point. Madame, are you really willing to read words like those we have given out today in the open again?"

Combeferre could not praise the calm Jewish mathematician enough for his words, words he himself could not say for all that was standing between them, but Hélène ruined the effect by coolly saying "Why not?"

"Because you may regret it in the future."

The words were out before he could stop it, and Hélène froze for a moment. She closed her eyes, pressed lids and lips together in a momentary gesture of restraint. Her shoulders heaved in a deep breath, and when she turned to him there was nothing left in her eyes of the woman he knew. The glittering gaze was hard as flint.

"And how did this become any concern of yours? My regrets are my own, Monsieur. I meet them as I see fit."

Combeferre felt as if he had received a physical blow. In all their time together, with all the words they had never spoken, there had been a few things he could always be sure of when it came to Hélène. They had been friends. They had respected each other. They had held each other dear.

This had been the last line of defense that had always held true.

He was vaguely aware that Enfantin had taken up talking – no, preaching - again, supporting Helene, and he clenched his fingers into the armrests of the chair he was sitting in, trying to sort out his thoughts. He needed to find rationality in all this madness that populated the room, to be a voice of reason as he had always been. Like he was used to, he swallowed a thousand words, of another kind this time, and ignored the curious look that Olinde Rodrigues was giving him.

"It is a sign of oppression as anything else", Enfantin continued, "and a sign of the power being in the hands of those that are misdirected and twisted. This society, as I have always said, is rotten to the core. Power is in the hands of those that think of nothing but keeping it to themselves, while it is only the regard for the well-being of our fellows and those beneath us that can advance us into another – a better world. It is the blatant disregard of everything we believe in – the fetters of a world that has outlived its purpose. What is it that we are bowing to, what is it that you are fearing, Monsieur? The dictates of an unjust government? The dictates of society even? Away with those, I say. This is not the time for delicacy, for veiled words and caution. We must be better men than that, we, who have seen the path that is still obscured to others. We, who by dedication and science must lead on and open a way to a brighter future to those that are less than we are. If it is by words like those, then it shall be. We are ready."

"We are not", Combeferre contradicted, having refound voice and composure. The anger at Enfantin's words helped. "Neither you nor us. This is the wrong time, Enfantin, and this is certainly not the place for single-handed heroism. The sections are in uproar. Too many of us are not prepared to act. You of all people should know that!" The last was directed at Hélène and Olinde, who had at least been present during the beginning of yesterday's meeting. "We will move out of cover, and in time, but, Monsieur, for the love of god, we must exert caution, or this will be over before it even began."

"He may be right in this", Chevalier tried his hand at support, but Enfantin had already found a different target for his words.

"God", he snorted, angrily now, gesticulating agitatedly with the pipe in his hand. "What would you know of God's love? Was it not Jesus Christ that did not choose the opportune moment but the right one? Was it not him, who bravely spoke out and did not heed the consequences? We are standing at the edge of a new world, Monsieur, and God is with us on this path. We must not fear darkness or death."

"Neither of which is the point", Combeferre answered, aiming for calmness in his voice. "Still, we are aiming for success, are we not? And this would imply some tactics."

"Tactics are secondary", Enfantin said, "the cause, God's just cause is absolute."

"You are venturing close to blasphemy, Barthélemy", Chevalier warned, shaking his head.

"But who says what is blasphemy?" Enfantin flared up, predictably, but Rodrigues shook his head.

"Barthélemy, I implore you. Not now. This is leading us nowhere in this discussion. We are all well aware of your opinion on the subject, but please, let us keep to the problem at hand."

"Thank you, Docteur", Combeferre answered with heartfelt relief. "While I do appreciate your courage, I would suggest that we at least try to take a calmer route, until a certain regrouping has been undertaken…"

"But what we really need", Enfantin contradicted, "is more followers. More convinced fighters for our cause. You will not achieve that in secrecy. Is this not in the first place why you joined us? So that your people, so that the ideas of your group, could be presented to a larger forum?"

"In parts", Combeferre admitted, "though I will also readily admit that I do take pleasure in the discussion and distribution of the ideas born in this circle."

"So then I truly do not understand what the problem is!" Enfantin answered. "We have done exactly what is needed at the moment. What Madame has written is the clearest of outcries, and it will reach far. It is a rousing call that will reach the stoutest of hearts."

"Undoubtedly", Combeferre answered. "It will also reach the ears of those that killed Alexandre de Cambout."

"There is always a risk", Enfantin said dismissively, and now, finally, the last straw was reached.

"Alexandre is dead", Combeferre iterated, speaking every word with unmerciful clarity. "He was murdered. And it is only by sheer luck that we have not lost Madame as well." To his own surprise, his voice kept steady at the last sentence. "We have angered someone enough to send a burglar into the mansion of the de Cambouts and end a life in cold blood. We are beyond risk, Enfantin. Danger has become reality. The first of us has died, and there will be more to follow if we do not turn to caution! Who knows if next time Madame will wake up in time to escape?" His best argument, knowing that Enfantin appreciated Hélène. Knowing that her active participation in Le Globe had been the final argument that had estranged Armand Bazard from his longtime friend.

It was the only idea how he might be able to reach him.

But inevitably his gaze was drawn to Hélène. She was staring at him, eyes wide, and she slowly shook her head.

"Don't make this personal", she whispered, and for a moment he could hear her behind all the composure, behind all the iron and steel. And yet, he could not bring himself to lie to her.

"But it is", he said, equally softly, and something wavered in her eyes.

And then composure was back again, and she spurred into motion, brushing past armchairs and tables. She left the room in a whirl of black lace and hectic movement.

He watched her go, heard her stepping down the stairs and into the main room.

A few moments later, the sound of a fiacre departing told him she had left the building.

Michel Chevalier took a deep breath. In absence of Alexandre, he was the closest thing they had to a leading editor; he had been with Le Globe from the start and carried the most experience with him.

"All right", he said, turning practical, his gaze going back to the papers. "I do think it might do well to temper some of the things we have done a bit, don't you, Barthélemy?"

Enfantin shot him a dark glare. But there were three of them against him – four, if one counted Marius Pontmercy, who had done his best to stay unremarked during the argument and was still very much looking spooked by the heat of the previous discussion.

In any case, the odds were against him, severely so, and Enfantin snorted, dissatisfied.

"As you wish", he replied angrily and took up his pipe again, relighting it and looking out of the window. "Do as you please. I see I have no power to stop you."

Combeferre sensed that this was the biggest admittance that they could hope for and turned back to the others, who had started to assemble the papers.

"So", he began, "would you need help with this?"

This actually prompted a smile onto Rodrigues lips as he nodded.

"Desperately so, Messieurs. Thank you for the offer."

Combeferre nodded and turned to the work immediately, only quickly after followed by Marius.

Nothing like true work to forget, or at least brush aside what had just happened.

 

 

 

The world was divided in blacks and whites.

Black and white, checkered of sorts, was the floor, the tiles slightly worn by time and abuse, but still showing the original pattern intended.

Black and white was the light in the room. White was the may sun that was burning its way past the windows, brightening the room with unmerciful clarity, and black were the shadows it threw, patterning the room into sections and compartments.

Grantaire had chosen a place of darkness to sit and gaze into the light, as was its due, and the shifting and change of non-colors filled his senses as wind slightly moved the curtains at the open windows.

The world looked different after the first bottle.

Black and white was the force that filled the room with its argument, an example and study of fierceness that colors would have shied away from as they would from dreams and nightly visions.

Black was Jacques de Morier, the sick man lying in his bed. His curls were dark and ungroomed, falling into his black eyes that shone with fever and anger under the curtain of long lashes, dark was his skin and black was his anger. A man of shadows he was, and he was burning.

White was Enjolras in all his glory, white and golden, marble his skin and pale blue his eyes. His fury was burning, hot and fierce, and white as smoldering iron in the fire.

The effect was enhanced by the fact that Morier was lying in a spot of light while Enjolras had chosen a place of shadow, as if both of them knew that the absence of what they were put into clearer relief their nature.

It was a glory to behold.

The rest of the room had receded into nothingness, the boy Lamarin as well as their comrades Bahorel, and Courfeyrac, who in the first stages of the argument had tried to interfere, but had since then slunk back to the sidelines before the force of nature that was unfolding.

It was beautiful and terrifying to behold, like a city burning or a thunderstorm raging.

He could not turn his eyes away.

His light was in so much brighter relief in the face of shadows. But then, he had known that before.

He had likened them to Apollo and Thanatos before, but now, in the face of the real thing, he understood that Morier was not Thanatos but rather Erebus, much more of a force of nature than he would have had him, and there was nothing gentle about him.

They had started out cautiously – as far as these two could exert caution; a concept that would have probably made Combeferre cringe – but the pace had picked up quickly, and now the anger was out in full, both the selfish one of Morier and the righteous one of Enjolras.

There was nothing to do but ride that storm out.

"What are you implying?" Enjolras asked in exasperation, crossing his arms before his chest in a gesture of anger. "Why on earth should Lamarin's influence, his participation in this council be harmful?"

Jacques snorted.

"I do not expect you to understand us, Enjolras. Whatever you do in the Musain is your own business. But the Cougourde has worked long and hard to be an efficient body, and I have no intention of jeopardizing that. In every army there must be chains of commands. And you will admit that I am still with the living?"

Barely, Grantaire thought, given the blazing fever in the man's eyes, but he had to admit, that he was holding himself with considerable strength. Jacques de Morier, that much was obvious, was not an easy man to overpower.

"No one doubts this", Enjolras shook his head. "But you will admit we had no time to wait for your return to health. We need to move now."

"No time for even a message?" Jacques asked nastily.

"We informed as many of you as you could. Joly and Bossuet were here, if I remember correctly."

"Sending me your henchmen", Jacques snorted. "Quite a way of invitation."

"Henchmen?" Enjolras threw his head back, golden curls waving in glory. "Henchmen? I have no such thing, Jacques, and even the expression makes me shudder at the way that you may think about those men who freely joined sides with you. We are equals, Les amis de l'Abaissé, we are friends. I have no need for henchmen or mindless followers."

"Really….?" Jacques de Morier asked, more quietly, and for a moment his gaze strayed away from the golden haired revolutionary, into the shadows, into the directions of those that were there, and yet were not.

In the direction of Grantaire.

There was a nasty glint in Morier's eye.

"I have no idea what you are implying", Enjolras gave back, and Grantaire wondered if this was true. How could it be true?

"Ah well." Morier backed off easily with a shrug. "Whatever you do inside the Musain is your business." His eyes turned to Enjolras again, black and blazing. "But I will not have you influencing La Cougourde!"

"I am not influencing anyone, Morier", Enjolras emphasized, his hands opening at grand gesture. "Why would I? "

"Why then is it that you have Lamarin here singing your song in all kinds of tunes?"

"I am sure you are aware that Marc Lamarin is a free being. If he came to join the Cougourde I sincerely hope that it was done on his own accord and will. Likewise, if he chooses to pay us a visit I do not see in which way this could arise your ire." Enjolras shook his head. "It is a while ago since we have decided to join forces. I had not been under the impression that this has changed recently but if this is a misconception, please, Morier, enlighten me."

"Joining forces indeed", Jacques retorted. "Joining forces is an interesting way to put it. Isn't it rather – rallying under your command?"

"This is ridiculous, wrong and leads nowhere", Enjolras sneered, angrily. "What are you aiming at?"

"I am aiming", Morier hissed, "at you meddling in things that are distinctively out of your scope."

Enjolras raised a blonde brow, fury momentarily replaced with dry aplomb.

"I am?" he gave back, his voice cool and only barely vibrating with sarcasm.

"This council of yours. A barely veiled attempt at the same move that has happened two years ago. At least the beast shows itself in advance this time. Tell me Enjolras, what's your ambition?"

Grantaire felt his own fury rise at that statement. To accuse Enjolras of anything like this was presumptuous. He considered rising to Enjolras' defense, but he dared not interfere, would not interfere with this natural disaster.

Something in the room shifted, the ballet of black and white rearranging, finding its metaphoric resonance behind that what met the eye. The devil and the angel, the shadow and the sun, heaven and hell in an eternal battle that spread out here, in this room, before his very eyes.

Enjolras straightened himself subtly, a movement barely perceptible but going through every fiber of his being. The effect was imminent and astounding.

In times of fury and opposition, Enjolras was capable of breathtaking calm. While before, the room had been full of fire and shouts, of hisses and grand gestures, all the telltale signs of a thorough quarrel, it was now calm and silent, the world holding its breath at the shifting forces between the two men.

Jacques, in his bed, seemed to sense it, too, the change wrought in his opponent, but he was not cowered, as Erebos would not cower before Aither, the light that he had born, as Nyx would not cower before the brightness of Hemere.

Born one of the other, they were still akin and alike and equal. But Grantaire had enough darkness inside himself.

Yet, it was a moment of perfect beauty, a moment of absolute, undying light, a security never found inside himself, that good, that the ideal was possible.

Enjolras was incredibly calm in his response.

"You will take back this insult, Morier", he said, not even loudly, but the tone in his voice spoke of the danger involved. "It is unwarranted and not worthy of either of us." He took a deep breath and continued, with slightly less tension. "The council, which, by the way, was initiated by Combeferre, not me, is an instrument of unification. Its purpose is not to exert control over others, but quite to the contrary to harmonize and consolidate. We are scattered, Jacques, and some of us are hurt. Some sections have been ripped apart at the seams, and if we are to maintain our common goal we must work together in this. Strength, as I have heard say before, is in numbers in this venture." He pressed his lips together, clearly his fury had subsided enough to show again, to replace ice with fire. "It is no one's intention to rule over this… council. It is just this. A place for counsel. Now you may be unfamiliar with this concept, which is a sad thought in itself, but do not dare to desecrate this instrument by defiling its purpose."

Jacques smiled.

"Indeed, Enjolras? Very well for the sake of peace I may retreat from this. But still. Look around you. Why do you think they follow you… chief… isn't that what you're called by them? It's not the common goal, my friend, no. It is something much more pure and basic than that." He shifted aside locks from his sweaty brow, taking a deep breath before he continued. "Its's adoration. Admiration. You and me, Enjolras we are two of a kind. Born to lead. The difference between the two of us is: I accept it. I know who and what I am. You, on the other hand, do not. You fool yourself with words of equality, of companionship, but what are you really? I have known you for a while, Enjolras, and you are many things, a leader not least among them, but a friendly man you are not. You set yourself apart. And rightfully so, because those who lead carry the burden of responsibility. We have to set ourselves apart to remain what we are. I do it by decision. You do it by nature. The sooner you accept it, the better."

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"And this is why, if you call an assembly without me in it, you will become its leader, if you want it or not. And you will shape it to your thoughts, and you will shape it to your ways, and in time, you will become a tyrant. You need people like me, Enjolras. People who stand up to you and don't just follow you. Equals."

Grantaire was so aghast that he did not even know what to say, and judging from the expression in his blue eyes, so was Enjolras. Even Bahorel and Courfeyrac were stunned into silence at the discharge of energy in the room, a game, that was supposed to be interesting to watch and slightly amusing all of a sudden becoming sour.

Enjolras was, for just the smallest of moments, looking as if he had been slapped, but the notion only flickered over his eyes for the fraction of a second, before again, cold fury resettled in his eyes.

"Morier", he said, his voice dead and calm. "You and I, we will never", and he emphasized every word, "be equals."

"This is getting out of hand." Courfeyrac had apparently, finally, found his voice again. His voice was like an odd element in the room, and it startled all of them.

"Listen, Jacques, all of this was with the best intentions. Perhaps it was a mistake of us coming here, granted. But we still should kind of remember that we are pursuing the same goals. We are, are we not?" He stepped up to the two opponents, actually calm in this moment, dash forgotten. It was one of those moments that Grantaire recognized from time to time, when he realized why this man, who often seemed shallow and flighty, was such an intrinsic part of their group. He sensed the mood immediately and reacted on it.

Turning to Enjolras, Courfeyrac seemed rooted so much in reality, shattering the picture of black and white, of sunlight and shadows with his own auburn colors.

"Enjolras, this leads to nowhere. Let us all take a break from this. Maybe we should sleep on it and continue this debate tomorrow."

Enjolras blinked, once, twice, and then surprisingly nodded, throwing another glance at Jacques.

"Yes", he said. "Perhaps we should."

It was decided.

And thus they filed out again, Bahorel and Grantaire, Enjolras and Courfeyrac, leaving behind only Jacques and Lamarin.

"You are staying?" Courfeyrac asked, throwing a questioning glance at Lamarin and the boy nodded.

"Yes", he said softly. "I am Cougourde, after all. And he should not be alone after this."

For a moment, Courfeyrac hesitated, and then placed a quick hand on the boy's shoulder.

"You are right, Lamarin. He should not. Be well."

And then he left as well, as the ripples of fury left the room and all that remained was silence.


	30. Daughter of constant shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eponine and Cosette face demons both old and new

**Chapter 29: Daughters of constant shadow**   
_"And yet we are the same in many ways. We are all the sum of our tears. Too little and the ground is not fertile, and nothing can grow there. Too much, the best of us is washed away. My rains have come and gone .. for now. Yours are just beginning."_

  
“I will make you a work of art…”  
The whisper found its way into the darkness that had clouded her mind like a merciful blanket.  
She had passed the last hours drifting in and out of consciousness, shifting between the worlds, between half-sleep and half-wake, in that particular state that belongs to those specters and ghost that are truest and closest to the heart.  
It was also a state where everything seems clear and nothing seemed real.  
And the whisper did not even sound like a threat. It had a fond ring to it, the tone a father might use on a child; or a lover on his love.  
For a moment, she imagined her father, back at the inn, a proud hand on her head, a smile on his face.  
For a moment she imagined Marius.  
But all of this felt wrong, felt somewhat slightly off-kilter, the fabric of the dream rippling and shifting at the thought. Images were fleeting, chasing one another, and scenarios mingled and mixed, and as soon as thought had surfaced, it was gone again.  
The phrase, for some reason of its own, remained.  
Éponine thought this a wondrous thing, an item of marvel, and stopped to consider; but thought slipped through her fingers again, and the tide pulled her on. Like clouds on a stormy sky, patterns changed and shifted, and there was nothing solid in the world.  
Except for the touch on her arm, as soft as a feather, as sharp as a knife. A touch like Montparnasse had once done, in the short fragment of happiness that they had shared, in the time that he had almost seemed like the boy he once was.  
A memory of his smile drifted across her vision, and she felt regret, deep regret. They had been so young. And now, they were so old…  
For a moment she wondered, if it made sense to both feel the touch of his younger self and mourn the hardening of what he once had been, but then she decided that it did, because this was a strange world and dreams were real.  
A hush on her forehead, a deep, deep breath, and Eponine was reminded of long, warm nights under the cover of thick sheets – sleep, my beauty, you played the day away – in a world where everything was warm, and sunbeams knew nothing of the dragons that hid just out of reach.  
She shivered as the breath burned through her forehead, the breath of a dragon, the fire of a beast. Like a princess in a tower she had been watched and caught, but there was no prince in her life, there was no light. She was surrounded by nothing and her dreams were full of ghosts.  
“I will make you my testimony…”  
The voice again, the maybe-not Marius, the maybe-not father, and her mind supplied a thousand situations, a thousand possibilities, but her father would never use that word, and Marius, dear Marius would never say this to her.  
Another oddity, this sentence out of context and time. It sounded like a phrase someone with a purpose would say, someone out of a back room full of candle light and hope.  
No, she thought, this is wrong, but another wave washed her upon another shore and she was a child again and there were no worries in her heart. The world retreated to simplicities: a laughter, a smile, a beam of sunlight. She forgot about the voice, felt leaves brushing over her face, over her arm, slightly stinging, but then maybe some of the leaves were nettles and there was nothing to worry about. It might be her sister, playing a prank.  
But the voice came back, somber and soft and so not like her father, and it was then that she understood that she was dreaming, that she was bleeding reality with tears she could not cry, and that nothing, nothing was right.  
“And I will set us both free”  
The word of freedom dragged at her senses, to bring her memories of a golden boy of summer, haggard in the shadows, glorious in the morning, but that was just a ghost of another kind and there was no truth in a dream.  
She was adrift as her world turned to a tantrum.  
The sound of angry shouting, slaps, screams, the clank of wood on wood, another, a weirder part of a dream, as everything that had been golden turned to black.  
The bed she was lying on shook as something crashed against it, and more snarls, and more crying invaded her world. Something within her told her that she should be afraid, but the haze was too thick, like syrup – another memory from a long time ago – and her thoughts were too frayed and fractured to hold true.  
Eternities passed in the twinkle of an eye, between dreams and questions, and then, suddenly, she felt hands on her shoulders, and shaking, almost desperate shaking, and a frantic voice calling her name.  
She knew the voice, and her hazed mind readily supplied haphazard images – names, faces, but all meant nothing – but she could not respond.  
A swear followed, an ugly curse that should have made a proper lady blush with shame, but she was Jondrette, she was Thénardier, and they knew everything about curses.  
And then she was seized, and carried, and again, the colorful round dance turned into merciful black.

 

“Eponine.”  
Slowly she was drifting back to the surface, out of dreams that made no sense to her, and she took her first breath that felt like her own air again.  
“Éponine.”  
The voice was persistent, the pull soft, but finally irresistible.  
“Éponine, wake up, damn it!”  
Again, hands on her shoulder. Again, shaking.  
I will set you free….  
She shot up and opened her eyes.  
At first, the glare of the sun through the windows was unbearable, and she squinted, feeling tears shooting in her eyes at its brightness, but then, tears of shame would almost immediately have followed because she did not cry, would not cry no matter what happened.  
Don’t ever look back  
She took two deep breaths to calm herself, before – this time better prepared – she reopened her eyes and shielded them against the sun, assessing her surroundings with a thoughtful gaze.  
She was back home, in her room in the Gorbeau house, but she had never remembered the light through the small, dirty, smeary window to be so bright. The hands on her shoulder belonged to a slightly disheveled looking Montparnasse, who was actually regarding her with concern burning in his eyes.  
For a brief moment she felt reminded of a gamin, years back, who had tried to teach her the rules of the streets, tried to adapt her to the more horrifying parts of it. She had not seen this boy for a long, long time and wondered what had made him resurface in this moment. But the expression, the memory, vanished in the blink of an eye, like a reflection on glittering water that was gone with a soft breeze blowing over the surface. And all she saw was the man she knew.  
“Finally”, he said, while she realized, that to the other side, hunched on her side of the bed, was Azelma, huddled together, nervously biting her thumbnail and regarding her with wide, fearful eyes. “I thought I would have to fetch a bucket of water.”  
“You still might”, Éponine answered, wondering at how rough, how ungroomed her voice sounded, as if from disuse or long screaming. Her world was still spinning, and it was difficult to sort her thoughts, as if part of her were still caught in the strange, vivid dreams that she had experienced. A bucket of water might help with that.  
Also, she felt slightly sick. A bucket might come in handy in any case.  
Montparnasse nodded to Azelma, and the girl indeed did get up, her silent steps leading her out of the room into the kitchen.  
Eponine took the welcome break to desperately try and piece together her thoughts.  
Remembrance came back slowly, and in fragments unnumbered.  
Being caught. The man. Fighting back. Darkness. Dreams.  
And all the things in between.  
The question of what had been real and what had been a dream came up immediately and absolutely inevitably. As nausea picked up, she raised her hand to her head, trying to soothe the pounding and calm herself. There was a dreadful taste in her mouth.  
“What… happened?” she asked with effort, and Montparnasse shrugged, an attempt at nonchalance that she did not buy. There was sweat on his face, and he was sporting what would soon be a black eye. His coat was torn at the lapels and a trickle of blood was flowing from somewhere behind his red ear into his collar, but for once Montparnasse did not seem to mind.  
Eponine dimly remembered that there had been a fight.  
“I told you he was bad company, Éponine. Should have stayed away from him.”  
Again his slightly strange way of reaction.  
“You know him.”  
“We may have crossed paths”, he admitted off-handedly. “Knifes even, on occasion.”  
Éponine took in his disheveled appearance and felt something akin to dismay. This was her doing – or rather, her captor’s – there was no doubt of it.  
The revelation hit her like a blazing arrow, bright and cruel and merciless in its clarity. Montparnasse had come for her. Of all the people she knew, of all the outcomes this venture could have had – she had been saved by the man she would not have thought capable of such a deed.  
She had no idea what to make of this.  
“Such as today”, she finally prompted, without needing any confirmation in the venture. Her voice was still rough, but she could hear an odd ring to it that seemed to have come out of nowhere.  
“He got away though.” He made light of the comment with a shrug and a smile. Nonchalance clung to Montparnasse like a second skin, and everything she said slipped of his shield like water off freshly oiled leather. He had turned untouchable in the passing of time.  
But Éponine knew everything about debts. Through her pounding headache, the swirling images of light, she tried to focus on his face, felt another wave of nausea rolling in inevitably.  
“Thank you for getting me out”, she said. “That would have ended badly without you showing. I owe you.”  
His body uncurled from his previously tense stance with all the languidness and grace of a cat, and he slightly tipped back his head as if to observe her from a slightly farer edge, his green eyes twinkling in almost a jest.  
“Don’t you forget it”, he said, and another would have taken it as a joke, a lighthearted remark that actually carried a notion of ‘it was a pleasure’ or ‘don’t think anything of it’ with it, but Éponine knew him well. For all that was standing between them, they were no strangers to the gifts of favors and she wondered what this one would cost her.  
But then Azelma returned, with her bowl of water, and placed it next to Éponine, crouching at her side with worry, watching her movements with large eyes.  
“You are not well”, she said softly, voice full of worry, and Éponine would have nodded, had she not feared that this would enhance the nausea to unbearable heights; that it would not call forth the dizziness that at the moment was lurking like a beast in the shadows of the darker recesses of her mind.  
“I’ll live”, she said, squeezing her eyes shut to chase away the blurring images and asked the question that she dreaded. “How did you find me?”  
“Montparnasse knew”, Azelma replied, and Éponine heard splashing, a squishing sound that told her that Azelma was probably wetting a cloth, but all the sound did was remind her of the uproar in her stomach, and in response to what had been actually an answer to a question, she snapped irritably.  
“Stop that!”  
Azelma fell silent at once.  
“I had a suspicion”, Montparnasse answered. “I told you I have seen the man before. He’s been around that market for longer than one might think – he’s good at blending with the crowd. I knew some of his haunts, though.”  
Éponine checked herself just in time not to bob her head and answered with a noncommittal noise that she hoped was affirmative. Even though she felt more awake, it seemed this only served to show her how abysmal she felt.  
“I’m glad…”, she managed with growing difficulty. “That’s a dreadful man.”  
“What happened?”  
Montparnasse’s question was just slightly too light to be honest. There was a threatening note, hidden deeply in the words, and for a moment she wondered how much he still considered her his. Or at least – not someone else’s.  
Éponine shied away from going back to the darkness that clouded the last hours. She remembered whispers, and fleeting touches, but clearer memory would not be pried from the abyss, and for a moment, she was grateful for it.  
“Don’t know”, she said. “He must have given me something.”  
Another roll of nausea hit her, as her words prompted forth half-images… cold metal against her lips, and that whisper, drink, child, drink some more, and she did, because she could not breathe and needed air. Something running down her throat with dreadful taste, burning and soothing, and every swallow…  
And then, all of a sudden, it was enough, and she was bowing over the bowl that Azelma held, retching, and heaving, and emptying what little she had had in her stomach into the cracked porcelain. Her sister’s hand carefully wove itself through her hair, and she hummed a soft song, no words, barely perceptible, but still soothing. It was a memory of a childhood long ago.  
The fit lasted longer than she would have thought. Her stomach cramped, long having nothing to give any more, and dizziness was unbearable. Éponine clenched her hands into the sheets and tried to regain composure, but only to limited avail. Montparnasse’s hands on her shoulder forced her back from the bowl, finally, back onto the bed, and the dry-heaving receded slightly, but the nausea did not, and neither did the disorientation.  
Her body was rebelling, both against what she had been given and what she had experienced. Once more, Montparnasse’s green eyes were on her, and there was fraction of the worry that Éponine herself felt as well.  
Rumor had it that there were nasty things on the streets. Mixtures that could be given that took your spirits away, that let you forget who you were, that brought upon you the vice that was cholera. Much of it Éponine had always dismissed as fearful fancy, but now that she was lying in her bed, her stomach cramping painfully and her senses in uproar, all of this did not seem as unrealistic as that.  
Fear gripped her as she realized she had no idea what she could do. One was prey to those sicknesses like one was prey to the seasons. They lived in a world where something like medicine was akin to magic, spoken about but never perceived. What they could not withstand on their own would kill them.  
Like a bright blaze she remembered that this was not true any more. Not to her, at least.  
She had given a promise and received something in return.  
Maybe it was time to collect a favor.  
“Montparnasse…?” she whispered. “Can you do me a favor?”  
“Another one?” His cocksure self was back, shining through his voice, hardly betraying effort. “You’re becoming quite indebted there, are you?”  
She ignored it for the moment – another thing on the long list of things to be sorted out later – and forced further words out against the nausea.  
“Can you bring me to Rue des Grés?”  
“Rue des Grés?” Montparnasse laughed. “What would you want there?”  
“Collect a favor.” For some reason she could hardly explain, Éponine was not prepared to delve into details there. In all honesty, she felt no inclination to tell Montparnasse how close she had come to the student group that was meeting in the Café Musain planning and dreaming at a new world. Neither did she fancy herself being laughed at – which would have been his most predictable reaction – nor would she, with all his dubiousness, want him to know at the moment at all. One had to remember that she was in his debt and this should be her debt alone. “Marius’ friends”, she explained, as he offered nothing. “There’s a doctor among them.”  
“Ah”, Montparnasse nodded, surprisingly. “Good thinking, ‘Ponine.”  
She heard him shuffle, and a moment later his arm was around her and he pulled her to his feet. Her stomach protested, her knees threatened to give out on her, but Montparnasse held firm.  
Only moments later, for the second time in three days, Éponine was dragged through the Paris streets, half-conscious and hurt.  
Towards the Musain.

 

The churchbells across Paris had already struck the sixth hour when finally they reached the house in the Rue de l’Homme Armée. Marius, of course, if given the opportunity, would have left much earlier, but Combeferre had been adamant about not leaving the headquarters of Le Globe before they had managed to piece together at least a decent sort of newspaper for tomorrow’s edition.  
Combeferre had quite obviously turned into a gentler, yet likewise unmerciful copy of Madame de Cambout, for he showed the same dedication and accuracy in his judgments. On the other hand, given the fact that many of the articles had undergone editing already, he often seemed to come to quite different conclusions.  
Only when Chevalier and Rodrigues had ensured them that they could deal with the remaining smaller issues on their own, had he relented, and now they were moving up the stairs towards the third floor, where, if Cosette’s letter was anything to go by, he should expect the new temporary residence of the Fauchelevents.  
They had walked in circles and turns on coming here, passing through the passage that Éponine had shown them two days before and then walked between the crowds, alternating thickly crowded streets and empty areas as methodically as only Combeferre would.  
There was reasonable hope that they had not been followed when at last they entered the building.  
Between the stories, there was always a landing, slightly blind windows going out on the street, and on the landing between the second and third floor Combeferre stopped and leaned against a windowsill.  
“I will wait here, if you don’t mind”, he offered, and Marius understood that it was the man’s manner of giving him privacy with Cosette. He thanked him and moved further up the stairs, as he saw Combeferre taking a pipe out of his pocket – it had been among the things they had retrieved from his apartment on their way back from Le Globe together with a set of fresh clothes and three books of various nature – and lighting it, as he took his place at the windowsill and gazed out onto the street in thought.  
And then, Marius was practically alone.  
He would have never thought that a door could actually look threatening.  
But he had come here for a reason, and taking a deep breath, heart hammering in his chest, he stepped up to the entrance to the Fauchelevent apartment and knocked.  
For a long moment nothing happened, and he wondered if he had misjudged the place or if the mere possibility of him making an appearance had chased them away, but then, finally, the door opened to reveal the somber face of Monsieur Fauchelevent, his eyes alight with suspicion.  
Marius cleared his throat.  
“Monsieur”, he began. “I hope you will forgive my intrusion but…”  
“How did you find us here?”  
His words cut off his speech, but they were not harsh, at least not overly so. Rather, the frown on the man’s face made him seem preoccupied and worried. Still, being interrupted temporarily confused Marius, but taking a deep breath he soon found his spirit again.  
“Well… your daughter, Monsieur”, he responded finally, opting for truth. “She left me a note.”  
He wondered if he should produce the note, a strange sort of invitation card for an event that was not even one, but somehow Fauchelevent did not seem to be the person paying attention to that sort of thing. Rather, the man was wondering for a moment, and Marius felt himself being under intense scrutiny once more before he finally nodded.  
“Did she then?” he asked. Marius, for lack of an alternative, nodded.  
“Yes, Monsieur”, he confirmed. “I… was wondering… if I could maybe see her.”  
Fauchelevent thoughtfully scratched his chin. He looked slightly tired, dressed in a casual chemise and waistcoat only, his curly hair mussed and not as pristine as when Marius had first seen him.  
He seemed reluctant to admit him, but he did not reject the request right away. Again, he looked at the young man, though Marius could not shake the impression that he was hardly even seeing him. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision and nodded.  
“She’s not well”, he warned. “I will ask her first.”  
And the door closed into Marius’ face.  
The baron’s son gave a quick glance back to Combeferre, but his friend had not even turned and was staring out of the window lost in his own thoughts, brow slightly furrowed, the glow of his pipe a tiny source of light in the gloom.  
It took a moment, but finally Fauchelevent returned and opened the door slightly wider for Marius to enter.  
“She’s not well”, he repeated, as if for emphasis, and Marius nodded, frightfully wondering what could have happened between two days ago and now, that would have changed Cosette’s state of mind so profoundly.

 

The room he was admitted to was less beautifully furnished than the place he had had a quick glimpse of in Rue Plumet, but on second glance this was rather less for lack of furniture, but for lack of all the small trinkets and tokens that made the room of a lady a home. While the Rue Plumet chamber had hosted a spectacular amount of memorabilia – images of pressed plants, drawings, tiny figurines – this place was surprisingly bare of it, even though the furniture was of the same good quality.  
Cosette was sitting at a writing table staring out of a window.  
Marius would not have needed Fauchelevent’s indication to see that indeed not all was well with his beloved. Her naturally light complexion had turned to a pallor usually attributed to fright or lack of sleep, and the dark circles under her eyes rather indicated an excess of the latter. Her fingers were restless and fiddling, and when she turned towards him, the smile on her lips did not reach her blue, wide eyes, for all she obviously tried.  
“Marius”, she greeted him, but even her voice was off-kilter, not quite the joyful, if slightly nervous triller he had heard before, but rather shrill in its failing attempt at exuberance. “I see you have found me.”  
He knew he should reply something polite, something noncommittal or even witty. His education helpfully supplied a dozen clever phrases, but all that he could think of was:  
“What happened to you?”  
She seemed to be slightly taken aback at that statement, for her smile vanished for a moment, before she forced it back onto her face with visible effort.  
“Nothing, Marius. I’m… quite fine.”  
He shook his head in worry.  
“No”, he said, before his thoughts could get the better of him. “You’re not.”  
As impolite as the statement was, it did at least provoke a reaction that was better than the eerie smile she had been faking, for the jolly expression vanished from her face altogether, and she turned to the window in an almost brusque moment.  
Marius first thought that it was to reprimand him for his impoliteness – which was indeed supreme – but then he saw to his horror, that her eyes were glistening and she was blinking a trifle too quickly.  
He wrecked his memory for things that could have called this forth, for things he could say, but his memory and experience of previous occurrences did not serve him well in his respect. Utterly at loss he searched for an explanation of her state of mind as well as a way to lift her spirits.  
“Mademoiselle… no, Cosette, I… if this is… I am so sorry you had to leave your home to come here… and even more sorry if it was my doing. If I could undo the damage I have…”  
“This has nothing to do with you”, she said, and then with a slight hitch in her voice, “or with us.”  
“Then Mademoiselle, tell me. Please tell me!” He spoke without even thinking, out of pure impulse. Seeing those blue eyes filled with tears was exquisite pain and he could not bear it.  
But Cosette bowed her head and shook it softly.  
“No Monsieur. My worries are my own. I… would not burden you with it.”  
For a moment, he felt a side of him agreeing. He did not want this. He did not know how to deal with it. Cosette was a kindhearted dream, a beam of light in his existence, the most beautiful flower of the garden. She inspired the song of the nightingale, she called forth the dawn in the morning.  
But quite apparently, she was also more.  
“Monsieur…”, she began to speak again before he had found his voice, and he realized that she was looking at him again, with a strange sort of desperation in her eyes. “Marius… do you ever… dream?”  
“Of course I do”, he replied without hesitation. “Of so many things… and of you, so often, lately.” He attempted a smile that was echoed on her face, heartbreaking and clear and a memory of the girl in the garden.  
“My dreams were often of you as well, Marius”, she admitted softly, shaking her head as if remembering an older fancy. “Such beautiful dreams they were…” Her hand went to her face, shielding her eyes for the moment. “But now my dreams are such things of darkness…”, she continued, voice softer and slightly hitching. “So dark…”  
“You have been unsettled by all this excitement”, Marius said, glad that he found an explanation to her behavior and sadness. A nightmare was an unsettling thing, especially if vivid, and he would be lying, would he say that his own dreams had not been haunted by the gaunt face of their attacker. But ultimately, nightmares were not very threatening. “It will pass, Cosette, I’m sure of it. It is nothing but an echo of what happened, and that will pass with time.” He took a few steps towards her, until he was standing right in front of Cosette, looking down into her pale face with fondness.  
But she shook her head and held his gaze, blue eyes slightly less tormented, but still full of tears.  
“I am not sure it is he who haunts me, Marius”, she said. “I see such strange things… Things I cannot forget. Like from a story…” She shook her head again, slowly. “And I am afraid.”  
A bold admittance, in the end, but this was something that Marius could battle.  
“There is no need for this”, he said softly and dared to raise a hand to her blonde curls, passing through them with care and reverence. “No need for fright.” He let his hand drop onto her shoulder, had his other hand joining on the other, a steadying hold that should stop her from falling. “I’m here. Your father is here. There is nothing that will happen to you.”  
She frowned softly, but something in her eyes was giving way, and Marius held on to it in the hope to see a glimpse of the Cosette he knew resurfacing. His fingers ran over her shoulders carefully, feeling bone and warmth under the fabric of her dress.  
“Cosette…”, he whispered. “There is nothing to fear.”  
She looked up to him, and then, with a deep breath, took a step closer, almost touching him.  
The effect was overwhelming. He could feel her warmth, her breath against his neck, vivid proof of her presence even if his eyes had been closed instead of firmly fixed on her blue ones. His hands found their way from her shoulders to her back, and before he knew what he was doing, he had enfolded her in an embrace, her face pressed against his chest, her arms snaking around to hold him.  
It was a moment of breathless wonder, an instant of unexpected bliss after the disconcerting experience of just before. Her breath was huffing against him, and she was so small and slight in his hands. He could have stayed like this forever, just breathing her in, locked in this ultimate awareness of her presence.  
“Give me beautiful dreams, Marius.” Her voice was barely heard over the pounding of his heart, over his valiant attempts to keep his breathing steady. “Give me beautiful dreams to forget the dark ones.”  
Marius dared a kiss into her mass of golden curls and wondered how one should do this, if not like this, locked in an embrace, abandoned in each other, and hoped, with all that was in him, that it would be enough.


	31. Closing in and closing out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lamarin negotiates, Javert ponders and Feuilly meets up with friends and more

**Chapter 30: Closing in and closing out**

_Only an idiot fights a war on two fronts. Only the heir to kingdom of idiots would fight a war on twelve fronts._

As Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Grantaire left the room, Marc Lamarin braced himself for a storm that did not come.

He had expected the fury that Enjolras had inspired in Jacques Morier would now be showered upon his own head, with all its vehemence and anger; but when Lamarin turned towards the leader of the Cougourde, he found him lying in his bed, all energy drained from his body.

His face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and he was breathing heavily with visible effort. He had sagged back into the pillows, and his eyes were half closed in a spectacle of obvious exhaustion.

Lamarin realized that it might have been an error bringing Enjolras here.

And yet, Jacques Morier had not completely lost his edge.

"Why did you stay?"

Even his voice was breathy, less captivating and terrifying, the dark eyes that were half hidden under long lashes had moved in his direction, and that magnetism alone was remnant enough of what had just transpired in the room to prod him to an answer.

"Because this is where I belong."

Jacques uttered a sound that was an unfortunate mixture of a snort, a laugh and a wince.

"What would you know of belonging, Marc?"

Lamarin took a deep breath and stepped towards the bed again, taking a seat in one of the chairs. He had put himself in a precarious position, true, but he was beginning to understand that their overall situation was so much more precarious still. The death of Armand was still all too fresh on his mind, and so was the assembly the night before.

"Jacques…," he began, quietly. He had to voice those things that needed to be said, and now with Jacques ailing and exhausted, having used all his power and spite on Enjolras was probably the best time that he would get. "For what it is worth, I am sorry that I brought Enjolras. I… was grieved and surprised at the reaction I received. To be honest, I still am. But I am part of the Cougourde. I do not intend to leave behind this group and take up residence in the Musain." Something flickered in Jacques' eyes at that, but he had not interrupted him yet, and Lamarin counted that as a good sign.

"I belong with the Cougourde, Jacques, this is why I do what I do. We have been attacked, and I do not want to see us fall apart. I… feel sorry for the others. I have seen Phillipe yesterday. He was so beside himself with fear that he did not want any part in our actions any more. If more die, there may be more of those who fall away if we do not support each other."

He shook his head against this, and a muscle in Jacques cheek twitched, but if due to tiredness or his words, Lamarin could not say. But he had started down the road and decided he had to follow it to the end.

"I'm just scared for all of us," he gave his final confession. "I don't want this to fall apart. And there are things I have to still tell you… I really don't know what to do with this anymore. I'm terrified, Jacques, that we will not find out what is going on before it falls back on all of us."

Silence filled the room – only broken by Jacques labored breathing, and Lamarin wondered if he had committed a fatal error.

Moments passed, before Jacques finally spoke.

"My, my, Marc," he said, and his tone was softer, dry, but at least not full of scorn. "How you've grown."

 

 

Morning passed into afternoon before he had finished reading through the files. His slow progress was jarring, but there was much on his mind that distracted him from the task at hand.

His world had become much more complicated since the morning.

The conversation with the Prefect was not an easy one to shake, and sitting in his office, staring blindly at the written words in front of him, was not helping either. He was not in the habit of not knowing what to do.

Usually, the path was clear before his eyes. The letters of the law were easy mistresses, clear and beautiful in their own right, a northern star to follow that never wavered, never swayed.

Today, however, things had changed.

In all his years of criminal investigation, Javert had learned to trust his own instincts when it came to the estimate of a situation, and it had served him well. He had rarely been in the wrong about the nature of a being in front of him, and if this would continue, then he was facing a very dire situation, indeed. He was not sure if he should feel disappointed at Gisquet, but he was sure of the fact that the request from him was an entirely unusual one. They should be dedicated to the truth. Not their version of truth.

The oaths he had sworn commanded him to obey the word of his superior officer, and yet what he had asked of him was wrong, wrong in the sense and the word of the law, and this was a thing that Javert could not condone.

What was there to do when the right contradicted the right?

Blindly, he stared at the pages in front of him as he pondered – every now and then, shifting a page without taking note of the words written, and Giubet had to address him three times with increasing volume before Javert realized that he had been spoken to.

Giubet had not been there when he returned from the Prefect, but this was no unusual occurrence. The man had his own errands inside the Préfécture, took care of the archiving tasks, and relieved Javert of the necessity to deal with the copyists and minor aides himself. Hence, part of his work consisted in prowling the corridors, carrying out errands that Javert lacked the time for.

Now, he had returned and was looking at the inspector with a slight frown.

"What is it, man?" Javert snapped, slightly less polite than he would have it, as if trying to hide his absent-mindedness, but achieving quite the opposite effect.

Giubet nodded in deference.

"Monsieur," he said, "There is a young man here to see you." He lowered his gaze towards a note he had brought. "A man by the name of Stéphane Barilou. He claims to have information on the Issy incident."

Javert searched his memory for resonances and found one. The name struck a familiar chord, and unsurprisingly, he found it connected to one or two student fights he had been investigating, but for all that he remembered, he was not one comparable to a Sebastien Enjolras, or a Jacques de Morier.

"I have had him put in one of the interrogation cells," Giubet continued meanwhile. "The third one from the entrance. I am not sure how genuine the information is, but I thought you would want to question him yourself."

Javert nodded and put aside the folders that he had not been reading. This was a welcome grace and distraction. Dealing with witnesses and suspects was always more satisfying work – it provided better results and the personal component of such a conversation was able to give such a better testimony on character and poise than cold paper ever could.

"Indeed, I want to, Giubet. In the meantime, please try and find out as much as you can about this man. I seem to remember him being connected to a few student brawls, so there must be something in the records on him. I would appreciate results on my return."

Giubet nodded and set to the task immediately while Javert donned his cloak and hat to make his way down to the interrogation cells on the first floor, where the witness would be waiting.

Stéphane Barilou was a man of fairly unremarkable physique. Brown hair was falling into his eyes, he had slightly wide-set eyes of indeterminable color and an overall sturdy built which suggested a man not alien to the element of exercise.

His clothes were good enough to consider wealthy upbringing, but sloppy, the waistcoat slightly rumpled, the cuffs of his chemise not spotless. He held himself with the confidence of arrogant youth, occupying the full seat of the chair he was sitting in, his legs slightly stretched before him in a gesture that successfully suggested confidence with himself and the situation. Barilou's accent carried a hint of Occitan that spoke of a southern upbringing. His turn of phrase suggested a student, though the subject was not clear, and Javert did not bother asking. Giubet would find out this information soon enough, and he had other things to focus on.

Javert did not like insolence, but for the moment, the young man was only toeing that line with his off-handed posture, even though the casual appearance was supported by the way he was talking.

The inspector was used to all sorts of witnesses. Many were nervous when they were led into interrogation cells like these, lit only by the dim light of oil lamps, windowless and bare. Others showed a determined sense of confidence that hid fear and anxiousness behind a mask of calm and composure.

Barilou, however, gave a splendid display of being intrepid that seemed genuine and was extremely rare inside these four walls.

It was in equal measures astonishing and annoying.

However, as Javert began to question the young man who, unlike many other students he had spoken to answered fairly willingly to his requests, he was quickly distracted from the off-handed manner of the young man by the things he was saying.

Unsurprisingly, he was one of Jacques de Morier's followers, but the information that he carried with him was extremely interesting. He had witnessed the attack at the improvised fair, but after the students and visitors alike had scattered, he had returned to question the gypsies present.

Javert silently congratulated him on this idea – he would have done this himself, had he not been sure that by the time he arrived there, they would have been gone already – and to his surprise, the young man had indeed found out something.

Gypsies were notoriously private about each other, the inner workings of their society and their own, secretive and often crime- filled ways. He, of all people, would know this.

And yet, Barilou had not only talked to them, but been told valid information.

And this information sent his thoughts into a tumbling whirlwind.

Roussata…

It was unlikely that one gypsy would betray another, even to a student, who at first glance would not be able to do much harm with that information. His mind readily supplied memories of the tangle and webs that linked the gypsy communities together. The satra, the tsera quarreled like any force of power would, amongst themselves and in private, at times violent and strong, but more often by intrigue and cunning. But involvement of gadsche was rare and actually forbidden…. mahrime.

He shook his head at the cursed words that had no place to be even in his thoughts. (satra – family; tsera – group of families, gadsche – non-gypsy…) He had shed that part of himself long ago, but the words of the students brought to life something that he would have rather forgotten.

There must have been a reason for that man betraying that sort of information to an outsider, and the answer to that question of course lay in the name alone.

Roussata….

He barely refrained from shivering.

"Have you caught the family name of that band of gypsies you talked to?" Javert asked, and his voice came out rougher than he had even intended, and Barilou shook his head.

"Didn't think to ask of it, sorry, Monsieur l'Inspecteur." His remorse seemed to be fairly limited given the fact that Javert could not shake the impression that Barilou as a general rule thought himself very clever.

"Of course not," Javert replied with biting sting. "Perhaps there would at least be the chance of having a description. Faces. Names. Signs on the wagons. Anything you might have noticed."

He wondered if he was going too far. The questions alone betrayed a familiarity that was certainly not befitting for him. On the other hand, gypsies were notorious criminals – no one would know this better than him – and it was only natural for a man of his situation to be informed about their ways of life.

Except for the fact that their ways of life were shrouded in mystery to one not born to them.

If he knew about this, Barilou gave no inclination, but instead set to the task at hand. Javert had to admit that the young man was blessed with a perceptive eye and a good memory because his descriptions were too accurate to be only figments of his imagination.

Unfortunately, although he did recognize what he was looking for, he could not place it.

He had never been part of that particular world. All he knew was bits and fragments.

However, when Barilou had ended his description, he had quite a list of facts and observations that might help him in the further course of the investigation.

The young man was looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and pride, with just enough dash to seem insolent, as if his indisputably accurate report had earned him a right to the inspector's conclusions. He did not ask, but the thought was obviously not far from Barilou's mind.

As he was about to learn, he did not possess the right.

"There is one question that remains, Monsieur Barilou," Javert began again, in a conscious attempt to throw the man off his trail of thought. "Given your general… attitude towards the government, why are you even bringing this information to me?"

It worked for a moment – because alarm flashed through the young man's eyes. Javert had not been sure how deeply the student had entangled in the dealings of Jacques Morier, but his reaction had been all the proof that Javert needed.

Barilou found his composure again soon, though, and with his composure came a remarkably casual shrug. The tenseness in his shoulders was barely visible.

"Last I checked – one was still allowed to debate, I think. And whatever I am debating about, this is still a crime. A friend of mine has died."

An opportunistic attitude at best, Javert thought. Relying on protection from the government while one was opposing it showed a remarkable amount of inconsistency. But Barilou had provided vital information beyond that.

"So de Morier is dead?" Javert asked.

"No," Barilou answered, a hard tone in his voice. "De Riberòn is."

Javert nodded.

"I see."

He had gained enough from this conversation. The boy had caught him unawares, and Javert was not prepared to know and pursue the full extent of his crimes at this moment – to Barilou's advantage and Javert's loss.

So, he let him go.

 

 

She was waiting in the entrance of the atelier, looking as out of place as a canary would among a group of sparrows, and yet she was, to Feuilly, the most welcome sight of this endless, tiring day.

Wearing a blue, fashionable dress, her blonde straight hair wound in an intricate bun at the nape of her neck, Katazcyna Woroniecka gave a splendid picture of bourgeoisie in these humble surroundings. She was a comely girl with a round face and blue eyes, no classical beauty but a person of clear lines and bright colors.

Seeing her was always a pleasure, and seeing her unexpectedly was even more so, but with slight delay, he remembered. It was Wednesday, after all.

Feuilly felt a sudden rush of gratitude – at the fact that she was here, and at Courfeyrac, who had despite everything, remembered the day – remembered to bring her here.

"You're a sight," he told her softly, and dimples appeared on her cheeks that gave her an air of youthfulness that suited her well. She was not yet twenty.

"Why, thank you Maurice," she said, with a pretty curtsy, before she stepped closer to him. Her mock coyness was quickly exchanged with worry. "You look tired."

His smile turned slightly rueful at her concern, and he placed his hand against his forehead in an attempt to clear his thoughts.

"I am a bit," he admitted. "But I'm…." And she laughed and carefully pried his hand away.

"Stop that," she scolded and replaced his fingers with her own, smoothing over the bit of skin that he had touched, a soft fluttering of across his forehead that made him close his eyes for a moment. "There. You're decent again. See?" She held up her hand for inspection, and he saw the dark coal smudges on her hand, understanding what she meant.

"Oh," he answered, a trifle sheepishly, and fished in his pocket for a handkerchief to clean his hands on, an act he had obviously forgotten as he had left his working place. He laughed slightly at his own foolishness and shook his head. "Yes," he answered dryly. "Definitely tired."

"Are you certain it's a good idea to see John and Jeanne then?" she asked, her head slightly cocked as she pulled out a handkerchief of her own to remove her coal smudges. "And not get a bit of sleep instead?"

Feuilly shook his head. He was not surprised that she already knew of the errand he had promised to run. Usually, Courfeyrac mentioned that sort of thing to her when he collected her from her mother's home. As it were, they were living their time together in snippets stolen at the price of little lies and hidden moves. Wednesdays were the only occasions where he could be sure to see her, and that was at the price of a very exquisite game of make-believe on Courfeyrac's part only.

Yet, this was nothing new.

"Katya, much as I would love to…," he said ruefully, leaving the rest unsaid, and she shrugged and sighed in mock exasperation.

"I had to try, you know? Well then, shall we?"

He nodded, offered her his arm and she took it with the ease of long familiarity. They had been playing this game for well over a year.

Side by side, they exited the atelier, and Feuilly stopped short at the sight of a fiacre waiting in front of it and sent a questioning gaze to Katya, who shrugged.

"Courfeyrac's insistence," she answered. "That was the only way he even agreed to let us go there on our own without him and Monsieur Enjolras as escort. He told me some gruesome stories to be honest."

Discreetly, Feuilly checked the pocket of his waistcoat. He had not thought of taking more money with him than he would usually need during a working day, which put him now in a slightly precarious position, but again Katya stopped him before he could even finish.

"He also paid for the coach," she added with slight dismay. Feuilly shook his head.

"I certainly cannot condone for that."

"I told him you would say that," Katya answered with a twinkle. "He then went into the specifics, courtesy of those medical student friends of yours how one might drug a person, in case he is vehemently desisting to follow recommendations that are only for the best of him – or something along these lines – but the procedure sounded messy, and I really rather we just go."

"Katya, you know I'm not comfortable with this. I have no intention to take alms, be it from a friend or a well-meaning source."

The situation touched a nerve that they usually carefully avoided. The Woronieckis were an old Polish noble house, its roots and branches spread out all over the northern part of Eastern Europe, and while Kataczyna and her mother retained none of the splendor of some of their ancestors and relatives, they still could be considered wealthy.

All things considered, their association was probably not a good idea at all, but neither Feuilly nor Kataczyna were inclined to listen to reason on this matter. And yet, they usually carefully avoided any pitfalls that might hint at this discussion.

"Yes I know," Katya admitted, more carefully. "I would have avoided it if I could. But you know how he is. And he may even be right in this one. A moving coach…," she looked at him, and jest had fled from her grey eyes and been replaced by worry. "… is much less of a target."

Feuilly stared at her in something akin to horror.

"How much has he told you?"

Katya sighed.

"He's Courfeyrac. What do you think?"

Although he would not have admitted it outright, Feuilly soon realized that the coach was a blessing. The half-darkness, hidden from prying eyes, allowed both him a direly needed moment of rest and them a rare time of privacy.

Kataczyna softly, wordlessly persuaded him to place his head against her shoulder until he was half lying on the cushions of the carriage. She let soothing fingers run through his hair as he slowly relaxed, entwining his hand with her other lazily, lost in a moment of repose as well as in her.

"Take a bit of care of yourself, will you?" Kataczyna whispered softly after a moment, and he felt her breath with the words running through his locks. "For me, if nothing else?"

The statement was slightly uncharacteristic for her, and it roused him from his dreamy state of half-sleep, and he responded with a sigh that was partly a hum.

"I'll try, Katjuschka," he promised, the tender form of her name passing his lips easily, and her soft laugh ran through her whole body as well as his.

"Ah, don't mind me, Maurice, I'm being stupid." She dismissed her worries with lighthearted tone. "I would just like for both of us to see that new republic of yours…"

"So would I," he admitted, taking the hand he was holding to his lips for a moment. None of them said that this new republic was probably also the only way in which this could last.

Comfortable silence engulfed them as the coach rattled on, and he drifted into a state of half-sleep again until Katya spoke again.

"I've received a letter from my cousin, by the way, from Warzcaw."

Feuilly, with some difficulty, brought himself in a slightly more sitting position. Turning his head, he could hardly make out her eyes in the half-light.

"The one who stayed after the war?"

She nodded. Kataczina, due to her ancestry, had a vast web of contacts all over Europe and spent a lot of time keeping in contact with them, which made her surprisingly well-informed. Yet if she mentioned it, there were probably interesting facts to be had.

"He told me that the Russian occupation is getting worse by the day. They have closed several newspapers due to their critical nature, and a number of my cousin's associates are lying low, others have found themselves in jail for something they said. There's even talk about closing the university."

"Quite a letter to send," Feuilly remarked and shook his head.

"He sent it with a friend that fled to Paris," Kataczina contradicted, still smoothing the hair at the nape of his neck in silent thanks for his concern. "So the risk was smaller, but I agree. I will have to find a way to tell him to be more careful."

Feuilly nodded.

"Still, it rings eerily familiar," he confessed, understanding the trains of thought along which Kataczyna's mind was running. "Although, here, the oppression is coming from within."

Kataczyna nodded.

"Still, I thought this might be useful to bring up when conversing with the émigrés," she mused. "I tried to slip this into the conversation at Madame Krasnicki's salon, and it was fairly well received. You may find yourselves more polish support, probably, in time, if you mention it more often."

For a moment, Feuilly wondered if telling her he loved her was an adequate response to that statement, for in this moment it felt very much so. After a moment's checking, however, he settled for something more practical.

"I will remember it when I next speak to the émigré groups," he confirmed and stole a kiss of thanks from her lips in silent indulgence of the thought he had had moments before. "I would ask you to convey my thanks also to that cousin of yours, but…."

"One day, I will."

The conviction in her voice made it very easy to believe it.

They met the Sellers in the Joliet, the regular haunt of the Saint Antoine group, because it was the easiest and safest place for them to be, as much a home base as they had to offer.

Feuilly noted – that again – most of the workers that were part of the section had found their way into the tavern after work, but the four of them chose a separate table, not the customary one in the corner, to have a discussion between them.

"Good to see you as well, Miss," John greeted Kataczyna and placed a cup of cidre in front of her. "It's been a while."

Kataczyna, comfortable as usual in the most obscure surroundings, nodded, laughed, and returned the greeting to both before she left the ground to Feuilly and his errand, resigning herself to be an observer of the discussion.

"It's eerie, the quiet, isn't it?" John asked after they had finished the exchange of pleasantries. "Such a hell of a start, and since then, nothing. It's somehow disconcerting."

"Count your blessings, husband mine," Jeanne remarked drily. "And I'm not sure it was nothing."

John's head whipped around to his wife, a frown plastered on his friendly face.

"What did you mean, dear?"

Jane shrugged.

"There was someone in our apartment sometime between yesterday and today."

John's exasperated exclamation of "what?!" overlapped with Feuilly's only slightly less horrified "Pardon?"

Jane shrugged.

"First, I thought it was the concierge. She is a bit nosy, you know?" she added in the direction of Feuilly and Kataczyna by way of explanation. "But I talked to her, and I don't think she was lying when she told me it had not been her."

"We've slept here at the Joliet, you know? All of us. Seeing as how Ravierre is one of us anyhow, we figured it would be better to stick close."

John reached over to take the hand of his wife, disquieted.

"I knew it was a bad idea to have you go there all on your own, Jane."

Jeanne snorted, but did not pull away from the touch.

"It was perfectly safe. More annoying, actually. I went home to get some new clothes and a bit of money, and I realized that things were not as I had left them."

Feuilly frowned in worry. He had not recognized a similar thing at his own premises, but on the other hand, he had been much too tired this morning to pay attention.

"In what sense?" he asked, none the less. "Have you been robbed?"

"Curiously – no. It was smaller than that. Items dislodged." Her lips twitched. "Less dust under the bed when I was looking for where my new stockings had gone."

"When were you planning on telling me this?" John burst out in anger, his accent growing stronger in exasperation. "You've been here for what – an hour?"

"Shh," Jeanne shushed him, throwing a casual glance back to the rest of the Saint Antoine group that was sitting in another corner of the room. Some heads had popped up at John's outburst. "Can we please not put everyone more on edge than they already are? I was looking for an opportune moment, all right? But after the conversations we have had this morning, I did not feel like fuelling the fire."

"Conversations?" Feuilly prompted in, worried, and John sighed.

"People are scared, Feuilly. So is everyone here in Saint Antoine. We're simple folks, you know? We know how to hold ourselves in a fistfight, and we won't shy away from taking up arms. But this sneaking in the shadow…," he shuddered. "Just doesn't seem right. And that's more or less everyone's opinion."

"Which is probably exactly why they have chosen to go down that route, don't you think?" Kataczyna prompted in, running long, well-groomed fingers around the rim of her mug and distracting Feuilly for a moment with it. "They seem to be few. You are many. Fear is their ally, I guess."

"Good point," Jeanne acknowledged, nodding to the young woman in agreement. "I've thought that as well. And thus, I didn't want to fuel the fire here, dear. Feuilly is in the thick of things anyhow, so I can't imagine much harm being done there. Sorry about that."

Her off-handed remark prompted a laugh from him.

"Thank you for the trust, Jeanne," he said, half in earnest, half in mockery.

"Well." John grumbled, still not appeased, but not quite in a position to contradict the words of his wife. "Whatever." He mumbled a few English words that Feuilly did not understand, but earned him a shove from Jeanne again. "So you're telling me whoever that is, is deliberately trying to scare?"

"That's how it seems to us," Feuilly answered, recalling discussions of the night before that he had had with his friends. "It seems to be a small group, maybe five people, not much more. They could not take us head on. But they can try to divide us and to scare us off. The council will help with the former. Only courage can help with the latter."

John Sellers made a face in disgust.

"So you think that we're next in line, that's what you say?"

"That depends," Feuilly answered. "What do you think happened, Jeanne?"

"Well, I'm no fancy inspector," she answered coolly. "But to me it surely looks like someone has tried to hide under our bed. Of course, he may just have been looking for a convenient place to sleep, but somehow that doesn't quite ring true. The bed is in a dark corner, and we keep lots of stuff under it. It's a good hiding place, if one wants to finally murder someone in one's sleep. Isn't that what happened to the de Cambouts?"

John paled at that, and his hand around that of his wife tightened. Feuilly could understand the reaction very well. Losing a loved one was terrifying.

No matter if one was a child or an adult.

"So they're still on the move." He tried to remember the way Enjolras focused a discussion from the present to the future, tried to adapt the man's way of moving on. "Which means that we still have to be vigilant."

"Definitely," Jeanne concurred. "We should talk to Ravierre, if we can stay some more. I know the tavern is not the best place to live, but until this is over, I'd rather have us all together."

"No arguments, love," John answered. "And Feuilly, you might best tell Enjolras about this. He'd want to know."

"I will," Feuilly promised, "although I assume, Jeanne, you will also tell him in person tomorrow in the Corinthe?"

"That and everything that might happen in between," she confirmed. "Let anyone try and stop me."

She looked fierce enough at that, and Feuilly could not help laughing.

"I would not, that's for certain," he admitted and shook his head slightly. "It's good to know you're keeping up spirits."

"Ah, spirits." John's face lit up at that. "Now you are talking my language. Fancy a drink before you go? I know you probably have to get back to the Musain, but the others would love a chat with you as well. Unless, of course, the little Miss here objects."

For a moment, Feuilly almost hoped she would. He was tired and exhausted; and indeed, there would be a trip to the Musain before he could go to sleep. Not to mention, the matter of Katya.

And indeed, Kataczyna threw him a quick questioning glance before answering, but he was not decided himself on what he wanted and gave her no inclination one way or the other.

"I fear you overestimate my influence in this," she answered smoothly in the direction of John, before she turned back to Feuilly. "And in any case, why would I try to persuade you to anything that is not your wish?"

Feuilly saw both the jest and the earnestness in her eyes and was infinitely grateful for it. It was the finalization of the talk they had had in the carriage, admittance and acceptance and confirmation all the same.

"Then we stay for another moment," he answered – actually in response to John, but his eyes remained on Katya's blue gaze. "The hassle will have us back soon enough, I guess."

John clapped his hands and grinned.

"That's fine then. Come on over. All the more if the danger is high. Nothing like laughs and spirits to chase away your demons, is there?"

Feuilly secretly reflected that Enjolras would profoundly disagree, but Enjolras was not here. And so he got up as well, felt Katya's hand slipping comfortably into his own as they walked over to the other table, and allowed himself to get lost for a moment in carelessness and companionship


	32. Recover and regroup

**Chapter 31: Recover and regroup**

_"I like you. You're trouble."_   
_"Why thank you. That's the nicest thing anyone has said about me in days."_

When the steps became audible, they had been sitting in the back room for no more than a few minutes, sharing a sip of wine to go with the early evening begun and waiting for the rest of their group to appear. Bossuet had considered the possibility of dinner, but Joly had proposed that they should wait for at least a few more of their band to reappear. Certainly, there would be the opportunity to exchange information, and this would be worth the wait. He could tell Bossuet was not happy about it, but he had resigned himself to the wait; slightly disgruntled but apparently seeing the point of Joly's proposal.

The steps, however, rendered any previous plans rather useless. They were coming from the passageway from Rue des Gres, and they were halting, almost careful, and certainly too light to be originating from one of their comrades.

Joly produced from his satchel a small pistol, loaded and ready, and placed it in front of him, his hand almost casually resting on the handle of the weapon. He had been carrying it around since after the attacks, and had kept it ready. There was no use being caught unprepared.

He nodded towards his friend, who thankfully understood the meaning without the need for words.

Treading softly, Bossuet got up and slipped towards the door as the steps came closer, opening it just as the intruder arrived on the other side, shielding himself with the door against whatever might be coming from this end.

Joly realized almost immediately that their concern was unwarranted, though.

Standing in front of the door was the girl Éponine, the one that Enjolras had invited to their assembly the evening before. She had been around their group for quite a while, mostly apparently attached to Marius, but Joly had to agree that the fact that she had saved not only Pontmercy, but also Enjolras and Prouvaire two days ago had put her character slightly in perspective.

Right now, however, she seemed to be in quite a different state.

She was pale and panting, supporting herself with both arms against the frame of the door. Her black hair, which at best of times was lank and uncombed, now hung about her face, only enhancing the impression of her pallor. Thin trickles of blood had run along her arms.

Joly reacted first, thoroughly shaken by her appearance.

"Good God", he exclaimed. "What happened?"

She seemed to be looking for an explanation of the state she was in, blinking hectically a few times, but Joly never let her get as far as that. Leaving the pistol where it was he got up and stepped towards her, carefully taking her arm.

"Mademoiselle, come. You should sit down."

She flinched slightly at his touch, a circumstance that Joly noted for further reference but ignored for now, as he steered her towards one of the benches where he bade her sit.

She followed without resistance which – given the few things he knew about her – came rather as a surprise and only spoke of her exhaustion all the more. Joly sent Lesgles to bring some water for her to drink, and some more to clean her up, and while his friend was doing so, he assessed the damage.

On first glance, it was not quite so bad. She was pale and shivering, a slight sheen of sweat over cool skin. Her arms had been cut in various places, like the almost tender kiss of a very sharp knife that had left its traces on her biceps and forearms, in shapes and patterns that Joly did not even try to decipher. She was sporting a slight lump at the side of her head, where something had hit her against the temple.

On the same side, a broad strand of hair was cut to chin length and stood out amongst the rest that was significantly longer, falling deeply into her back.

Frowning, Joly tried to make sense of what he saw. He went back to the lessons he had had.

Asking the patient is important, Ashbel Smith had said, when he had taken Joly with him on his visits to the sickbeds. But always form your own opinion first. A patient's memory is often unreliable in its panic and worry.

He assessed the damage on the arms. The wounds were not deep but rather widespread, and from some areas blood was still trickling in small drops. However, they would probably heal without difficulty. Some cleaning might help, but at a first glance none of the cuts were truly dangerous. There might even be no or only very few scars.

Now her general condition was something more difficult to place. The pallor and weakness could point towards a number of causes from concussion over shock up towards several diseases such as influenza or even more severe ailings.

Given her overall state Joly concluded that a common illness was less probable than an aftereffect of some sort of rough handling. Her clothing alone was a clear sign that she originated from the lower classes, and his visits to the poorer quarter of Paris had told him quite a few things on the dangers beyond mere illness that one might encounter there.

Joly had had his share of tight situations.

"Mademoiselle", he began, and she focused on him with difficulty, as he raised a finger before her eyes. "Continue to watch this, please, without moving your head." He slowly moved his finger to her left, then to her right.

She followed, wincing slightly, but fulfilling the task, only a slightly quickened blinking showed that she was having any difficulty with it.

"Does it call forth nausea?" Joly asked.

"Some", Éponine admitted. "Though not as bad as before. I threw up twice."

That might point towards concussion, although that was notoriously difficult to diagnose accurately.

She focused her gaze on him again – it was a good sign that she was able to, Joly decided – and he realized that the pupils were small, significantly smaller than he would have expected given the light in the back room of the Musain. He frowned at the odd sign, searching his memory for possible explanations, finding only very few.

One suspicion, however, remained persistent.

"Breathe on me, will you?" he asked, and as she complied he recognized between the sour remnants of an upset stomach a slightly sweeter note that confirmed his suspicion in an instant.

"Did you drink tea recently?" he asked, and Éponine frowned, obviously thinking his question odd.

"No", she said, then hesitated. "Well. I don't know."

Joly pondered this for a moment.

"So there is a time you do not remember?" he asked and something quickly flashed through her eyes, difficult to place but distinctly unpleasant.

"Sort of", she admitted reluctantly. Joly suspected that the only reason why they were even having this conversation in such a calm manner was that something had indeed shaken the gamine. She had been very sure of herself and efficient the evening before, when Courfeyrac had recruited her as help in organizing the assembly.

"There is a remnant of poppy seed on your breath", Joly explained. "Which is why I suspect what you are currently experiencing is the aftermath of being given a dose of opium." He removed his spectacles to clean them absent-mindedly while he continued to explain. "Opium is being derived from the seeds of the poppy plant, and has become quite popular of late."

"I know that", Éponine snapped with a remnant of her former spirit and Joly concluded that indeed maybe she did. One would, if one roamed the streets as she probably did.

"Very well", he said, deciding not to be offended by her behavior. He had seen worse in the faubourgs and could even somewhat understand her impatience. Waiting on a diagnosis was a terrible thing.

"I thought it's smoked." Her words were slightly more gentle now, although the frown had certainly not left her face.

"Mostly, yes", Joly admitted. "Although recently, tea made from the seeds has come into fashion as well. It is less popular than the pipe, of course, but I have seen it before."

"Easier to make you drink it when you're unconscious", Éponine mumbled disgruntledly, and Joly not for the first time wondered what had happened. The fact that she was obviously oblivious did not quite suggest that she had taken the opium herself. However, he had not concluded his assessment on her condition.

"I guess so", he confirmed, though. "I am deeply sorry for hearing that, Mademoiselle…"

She snorted, and he decided to continue on the medical facts for the moment, before he tried to find out what was going on.

"The mixtures that are sold on the streets are sometimes not very clean, and I am of the impression that this is the main reason for the aftereffect you are experiencing. The aftereffects of one-time opium consumption are usually not very severe, but what you have explained and what I can tell seems to point towards a fabrication and preparation process that was not quite as thorough as it should be. It…"

"What you're telling me is I will be okay", Éponine interrupted, voice slightly rough. Joly was taken aback by her bluntness, but he nodded slowly in response.

"Yes", he said. "That's what I suppose I was trying to say."

She pondered this for a moment, thoughtfully chewing on the insides of her cheek before she nodded.

"All right then", she answered, and tried to push herself up, but Joly did not let her get that far.

Placing his hands on her shoulders – again she flinched and Joly wondered what had happened to her; but he did not dare to ask yet – he softly pushed her back to her seat.

"I don't think so", he said. "What I would recommend is something to drink", he fished for the glass that Bossuet brought and placed it before her, "and something light to eat that will settle your stomach. And rest."

"I'm no doll", she snarled. "And not your pet."

Joly was slightly taken aback and not quite sure where this fierceness had come from. She had reacted in a similar manner, though not that strongly, when they had first invited her into the back room, wounded in a different battle and a different manner.

"I did not want to imply this in the least. In fact…"

Joly hesitated and searched for words for a moment, but he was interrupted before he could finish his sentence by the arrival of several of their comrades from the main entrance of the café. Éponine raised her head with him, looking towards the entrance of the room.

"Great", she said. "News after all."

 

 

Eponine was glad that Joly's attention moved from her to his entering friends, so that she had the possibility to sit back, take a sip of water, lean against the wall and collect her thoughts.

She had not thought of opium when she had worried what was wrong with her, but of all the options that her slightly upset mind had supplied, this was certainly one of the less threatening. Éponine had steered clear of the places where the sweet smell of smokes were telltale signs of the herbs that were being consumed. That did not mean, however, she knew nothing about it.

Relieved of this worry of hers, she tried not to ponder the myriad others, that were battering at her mind. Such as the fact that she had no concrete idea what had actually happened to her. Now, with rest and some calm and time passing, her mind seemed less foggy, less affected by whatever she had been given by the man who had held her in his custody, but with a certain disquiet she had to admit that her memories remained hazy.

She had no idea what he had done to her, and that was a very disquieting thought.

"Good lord, Éponine, what happened?"

The voice found its way into her thoughts and Éponine raised her head to look at Courfeyrac, who had entered the room with Bahorel, Grantaire and Enjolras in tow. He had immediately spotted her in her place sitting against the wall and gave a clear picture of concern. The others, following behind, found their places in the room and around the corner she was sitting in with practiced ease – Joly at her side, Bossuet next to him; Enjolras and Bahorel across the table and Grantaire at an angle, tipping back his chair in a study of nonchalance and almost-amusement.

Éponine, however, had seen enough false ambivalence to last her a lifetime and neither did she believe him, nor Courfeyrac's studied calm as he leaned against one of the pillars, still watching her.

Looking at the latter, she realized that he was probably expecting an answer.

After a moment's hesitation, she opted for honesty.

"He caught me", she said, as simply as she could, and that was indeed what it all came down to.

Nonetheless, there was a world in that statement, and she tried to fend off the images that it brought with it. She was fairly certain that Montparnasse had saved her life by rescuing her from the clutches of that man. She was also fairly certain that it would not have been an easy death.

But these thoughts were leading her nowhere, and fortunately, both Courfeyrac's exclamation of "what?!" and Enjolras' subtle tensing as he bowed slightly towards her tore her out of this unproductive line of thought.

"You are talking about the man who attacked us at the market, I presume?" Enjolras asked. Outwardly, he was calm, one arm placed on the table as he watched her, but Éponine, trained in the finer art of body language, saw the subtle tension there. She nodded.

"Yes." And stopped talking.

Courfeyrac shook his head and took to pacing.

"Why would he do that?" he wondered aloud, and this earned him a disdainful snort from Grantaire, who already had a new bottle in hand and took a deep gulp.

"Stupid question", he snarled. "That man's out for blood. Bastard got none of it two days ago, and so of course he's getting it another way."

"It's worse than that, actually", Bahorel added. He seemed relatively calm given his normal exuberant behavior, but his focus was now directed to Courfeyrac. "We all know what he is. That's a next step of escalation actually."

"Yes it is." Éponine had no idea what they were talking about, but obviously Courfeyrac did. "I assume he took you captive instead of going for a quick kill?" He did not even wait for her answer but shook his head once more, continuing his rambling without a second thought. "This is bad, it's exactly what has happened before. Yes, he must have been after you personally, there's no other explanation."

"Actually there would be", Bahorel contradicted. "She's crossed him. And his friends. Some don't take that that easily." His grin was almost wolfish and made Éponine shiver slightly. "But I agree that your theory is somewhat more probable."

"I don't even want to imagine the things he could have done, the things he probably has done", Courfeyrac continued, but this was when Éponine intervened, being thoroughly fed up with both situation and discussion.

"I'm right here", she reminded them angrily. "What the hell is going on?"

"We have received an anonymous letter this morning." Enjolras' cool voice cut through the excitement with the clarity of a cloth soaked with cold water on a hot summer day. "More to the point Marius Pontmercy has received an anonymous letter sometime between the attacks and today. It contained a set of information on the man that has tried to kill us at the market two days ago."

Éponine turned to look at him, as he recalled the contents of the letter, and although what he was saying was gruesome, the cruel neutrality of his words made it almost bearable. She let the words sink in, and had to admit that it was easy to reconcile the picture Enjolras was painting with the voice in the darkness, with the disquieting touch, the fetters and the whispers.

"Would you share with us what has happened today?" Joly's voice was gentle and careful, almost in the manner of someone speaking to a spooked animal, and it put her immediately on the edge. Weakness was not something that came easily to her, or something that she ever indulged in. The more she was unsettled, the less she was inclined to that sort of treatment.

And unsettled – if she was honest with herself – she was. Deeply so.

She turned her gaze to the young medic and took a deep breath, trying not to be unfair. He had already helped her, and even though now she saw a glow of hated pity in his eyes, his manner of treating her injuries had been agreeable on the whole. Ungratefulness was not befitting. There was little enough selflessness in the world.

And yet his voice and gaze called back the abyss that she had just left and Éponine took a deep breath to banish the specters into the darkest, deepest recesses of her mind.

Her voice was cool and steady as she told them what had happened.

It was little enough that she could rationalize. She remembered being taken and caught, getting a glimpse at the face she had seen several times before and that she probably would never forget again. The first part of her captivity stood clear in her memory, but after her attempt at escaping, everything was hazy. She dimly remembered drinking something, remembered touches and whispers, disjointed moments and flashes in time, but she did not delve into the details of them.

That was an abyss she did not want to face yet.

When she finished, there was silence.

It was, without surprise, Courfeyrac who found his voice first.

"How did you escape?"

She let out a wolfish grin which felt like the only facial expression she was still capable of.

"I do have some friends."

"Without doubt", Bossuet confirmed. "And I am very glad to hear it. These friends of yours have done a very courageous deed, all things considered."

"How did they know how to find you?"

Courfeyrac had taken up his position at the pillar again, arms crossed, a looking at her, the frown still plastered on his face.

That, Éponine had to admit, was a good question.

While she had to face the fact that Montparnasse knew quite a bit more about this band of assassins than was beneficial for her peace of mind, it was also clear that he had saved her life today. Whatever his dealings with their attackers were, he had taken sides this afternoon, and in the clearest and most unambiguous way.

Éponine had preciously few people she could trust. And while the bond between her and Montparnasse was nowhere near where it had been at a different time, she did not intend to betray her one time friend. They still were associates, and she was now deeper in his debt than ever before.

Yet Marius' friends were expecting an answer of sorts, and she fled into a noncommittal statement, all too similar to many she had done before.

"We are children of the streets", she said. "We know our way around."

Courfeyrac raised his brows and nonverbally made it clear that he recognized her statement for the aversion that it was, but he did not press. His lips twitched slightly, and there was concern in his eyes that Éponine would have liked to ignore.

"I see…" Joly said, finally. "After this tale…" A clinking sound made Éponine turn and she saw that the young doctor was fiddling with his cane again; a habit of his that even Éponine had already realized due to the fact that he was doing it so often. He was not looking at her, his fingers uncertain and fumbling while he was groping for words. "Pardon me, Mademoiselle… I hope the hurts we have dealt with are… all…"

Éponine understood immediately what he was aiming at and cut him off with a snarl.

"Yes, they were all", she gave back bitingly. "Nothing more happened. End of discussion."

She did not even begin to think of might-have-beens.

Joly raised a hand in defense, the despicable pity clear in his eyes.

"Of course, Mademoiselle", he retreated, and Éponine almost wished he would have pressed, because that would have given her something to unleash her fury against, but he was not offering and she kept herself well in check.

"Is there anything we can do for you?" The lesson that Joly had learned quickly had obviously not sunk in on Courfeyrac yet. 'Leave me alone' Éponine was tempted to say, but on the other hand she did not exactly feel like going home yet.

It was tempting, easily tempting to stay here, where at least she could lick her wounds in peace.

If they would let her…

"It raises the question on how we proceed." Again, Enjolras' words were slightly at odds with the overall subdued mood, but he relieved her of the necessity of an answer. If he had sensed her hurt or the dismay of his comrades, he did not react to it. "There are a number of actions to be taken." He placed his fingers against one another in a thoughtful gesture.

"This second attack only emphasizes the need of finding out the nature and dealings of our attackers. It is also, as far as I can tell, the only time that a second attack has been issued, which rightfully points to the fact that the reason for this attack was a different one."

"You mean he acted on his own accord?" Bahorel intercepted, frowning. "And not… say… in harmonization with the others?"

"It remains to be confirmed", Enjolras admitted. "But neither we at Picpus nor Courfeyrac and Grantaire at the Barrière have heard of a second attack, as far as I can judge. We should of course wait for confirmation from Feuilly, who is probably still in Saint Antoine, but as a general impression it does not seem as if we were facing a second wave of attacks."

Secretly, Éponine thought that his words made sense. Her captivity had felt incredibly, disquietingly personal. And she half remembered parts of the conversation that she had had with him.

"I think you're right", she said, and the attention turned back to her. She kept her eyes fixed on Enjolras – hoping, that at least in his face she would find no pity. He raised a blonde brow and slightly bowed forward in interest, his blue gaze holding her dark one mercilessly. She was not disappointed.

"How so?" he asked.

"Some of the things he said. Like – I was trying to explain to him that I was not a very valuable target for him, seeing as I'm not…", she broke off as she realized what she wanted to say; realizing likewise that it was not true. She had become part of them. Enjolras blinked and waited, while she fumbled for another wording.

"… well not as crucial to the whole organization."

"Given the fact that you have saved four lives in the process and that you have held up yourself splendidly yesterday, I beg to differ." Courfeyrac obviously reacted on instinct, and still, Éponine had no real response to that statement. She forced herself to keep looking at Enjolras, who at least displayed a calm that was lacking in the rest of the room.

"That's nice", she answered, not sure whether she meant it. "Thank you. But still. I haven't spent so much time with you. So I'm probably not the most obvious target."

"What did he say to this?" Enjolras brought her back on the track of her tale effortlessly.

"Well. He said that would matter to his associates, but not to him. Or something like that."

He nodded curtly.

"Indeed, that confirms it then." He thoughtfully placed his chin onto his fingers. "Which can probably play into our advantage. If they are not acting in unison, there may be the possibility to divide them. Maybe even distract them from their common goal." He threw a quick glance into the round of his friends, who had fallen silent at his musings. "Perhaps we can devise some plan for this. We certainly should try to find witnesses and derive as much information from this incident as we can. Together with the letter it may even be useful to alert our friends of Le Globe. They might be able to issue an overall warning with respect to this man. After all, if Pierre Berat is true to his word, we should have the drawings of the assassins by tomorrow."

"Enjolras!" There was some exasperation in Courfeyrac's voice, and as Éponine turned towards him, she could see that he had stepped away from the pillar and was now looking at his friend with a frown on his face. The attention of Joly had shifted towards their leader as well, and although his own displeasure was less pronounced, it was him who continued to speak.

"That is hardly the most important thing to think of right now."

Enjolras shook his head.

"I disagree, my friends. It is one of the most important things we should address right away. Up until now we have always been caught at a serious disadvantage and it is high time that this changed. The opportunity has presented itself, and although I mourn the price at which it has come, this does not belittle the fact that it is there and meant to be used."

"She's just been freed from what must have been a horrendous captivity", Courfeyrac insisted more heatedly. "Shouldn't she first recover a bit before we unleash the full force of our planning on her?"

"Enjolras, I appreciate you wanting to do something, and soon", Joly supported. "But we have to consider that Mademoiselle Éponine has been through quite a lot. She will need some time to heal."

"I'm right here!" Éponine had watched the discussion, not quite certain whether to feel aggravated or amused, but enough was enough and she intercepted in sharp tones. "And to be honest, I'm fine, thank you. If you ask me, I'd rather see that sick man dead yesterday than today, so whatever it takes to bring that about – count me in. I'm not playing the bait, though", she prompted, just for clarity's sake, and this earned her an almost reprimanding gaze from the blonde leader of the ABCs, who shook his head.

"Bringing you into that kind of danger is certainly out of the question", he confirmed. "Yet descriptions on where you have been will be most welcome, and if you would join us in seeking out the place where he held you captive, that would be much appreciated." Courfeyrac, still standing, arms crossed before his chest and shuffled, but kept his peace.

"That's something I can do", she agreed carefully. "If someone knows where I was."

"That complicates things", Enjolras admitted. "But can you not ask this friend of yours? He should know, should he not? Has he searched the lair of that man?"

"I am not sure", Éponine answered, mulling his question over for a moment. "I guess if there's been any valuables, they are gone by now. As to other things… papers and the like, I'm not sure he would have taken that. And yes. He should know where I was." Although it would be easier, she secretly reasoned, to ask Azelma about it.

"Ah." The response was fairly dry and accompanied by a slight twitch of a brow. "A true gentleman then."

Éponine shrugged.

"They can't be all as gallant as your friends, Enjolras", she prompted in the same manner, shooting a glaring dagger at Courfeyrac that she knew was slightly unjust. She acknowledged that he was trying to be kind, for all the good that it did her.

The twitch reached Enjolras' lips, for just the fraction of a second, and Éponine saw a flash of amusement wandering through the blue eyes.

"Indeed", he replied, before he leaned back in the chair more comfortably again and turned back effortlessly to the issue at hand. "So we should as quickly as possible try and find the place where this man held you captive. Perhaps it has something to tell us. In addition, it might be interesting to ask around at the market – although it might be quite too late for that now. Do you have any idea close to which stands you were taken and where we could reach the corresponding merchants?"

Unfortunately, Éponine did not know where the tinker that she had last haggled with had placed his shop and therefore she shook her head in slight dismay.

"Don't think so", she said, but again Enjolras took it in his stride and moved to the next point.

"So we have publication of faces and incidents, and the increase of pressure on your captor. Both should be able to improve our situation. In parallel, we should try and start retracing the steps of the man called Alfonse Rébucy. Somewhere between his trial in the north and today he must have become part of this group of assassins that we are dealing with. Maybe here we can also ask our journalist friends. It is possible that Le Globe has connections that could help us there. An incident like the ones the letter mentioned should at least have been covered in the local papers. We should remember to ask Combeferre, Marius or Feuilly once they are back."

Almost absent-mindedly, Éponine realized that after a few days in the company of Marius' friends, the quick jumping of thoughts and plans became much easier to follow than it had been two days ago, when she had first found herself in this back room and in much the same company.

It was quite an exhilarating revelation.

"As a third step", Enjolras continued, "we should of course also ensure that a repetition of the incident is out of the question." His gaze, animated while he had spoken before, fixed on Éponine again as he addressed her more directly, and more intensely as well.

"Éponine", he began again, "far be it from me that I try to inflict fetters of any kind on something freeborn. But I would ask you to reconsider your roaming alone through the streets. I am aware that you are much more familiar with them than any of us, and far be it from me to question this. However time has proven that this provides no protection. My offer still stands. You have aligned your cause with ours and hence you now share the same danger. You have accurately pointed out that our strength is in numbers, and in us watching out for one another. The same is valid also for you."

Éponine had expected this and mulled over the thought for a moment.

In principle, it was unacceptable – there was the matter of her father and Azelma to consider. But there was also the thought of a moment of safety. Indeed, she did not want to be caught by the assassin again, and the memory of his whispers alone sent a cold shiver down her spine.

However, as so often, Éponine was not the master of her own dealings.

"I can't", she said, softly. "And you know why."

Enjolras frowned for a moment, but then she saw remembrance dawning in his eyes.

"Ah yes", he said. "That. We should speak on this, I think."

She would have almost asked him what he meant by this, but steps heralded the arrival of more members of the group, and his attention shifted from her.

Knowing him, however, the issue was pushed aside.

Not forgotten.


	33. Cataclysm

Chapter 32: Cataclysm

"Because sometimes 'peace' is another word for surrender and secrets have a way of getting out."

The Jardin des Tuileries was beautiful even at night. The wide and open passages were lit with lamps, their orange glow like fireflies in the summer glory of the trees.

Aside from the main passages, there were alleyways, intrinsically wound in ivy and flowers, places of repose and quiet and now that the sun had left the sky; of dark.

A few members of the National Guard were strolling down the main passage and its smaller companions, a telltale sign that Louis Phillipe himself was walking in the gardens today as he was prone to do in times of turmoil, when reflection was needed and the path was not clear.

The presence of the king himself – as well as those who guarded him – made their meeting slightly more difficult, but the disturbance was small.

After all, both of them were fully within their right being here.

They had chosen a quiet spot in the back recesses of the garden, and after the Friend had ended his companion heaved a slight sigh.

"I see", he said and fell silent for a moment, lost to his own thoughts.

"I cannot allow it", the Friend emphasized. His posture was almost relaxed – he did not believe that showing outward tension was useful in a conversation like this, and yet his voice alone conveyed that the subject was important to him.

His companion frowned slightly and nodded.

"I remember, a long time ago, how you have vehemently argued for this man."

The Friend sighed. This was not unexpected, but annoying none the less.

"He was useful for a long while", he reminded his companion softly. "For ten years he was useful."

"Of course he was. Still I have told you, a rabid animal cannot be kept on a leash forever."

The Friend shrugged, dismissing the argument calmly.

"That is well possible." He let his gaze linger on the ivy before him. "I have your permission then?"

His companion stayed silent for a moment.

"Can we afford it?" he finally asked, his voice calm but still carrying a slight anxiousness. "The situation is tense."

"With all due respect", the Friend retorted, "we cannot not afford it. For what you say is true. What he has done is a fallback into the worst patterns. It was unfortunate that the girl has attracted his attention, and I would not have mourned her passing, but I agree that the situation is fast becoming uncontrollable. I do not think I can quench this urge of his with anything short of restraining him for a while."

"You have done it before."

The Friend nodded.

"Yes. But the time for that is over. When we first did it, he had no specific point of interest. Now he has. He will not rest."

"And if we let him kill her?"

The Friend shook his head violently.

"With all due respect, this is uncontrollable. Yes, he might be able to kill her. But he will not do it easily. He kept her in one of our hideouts to play his little games with her. This is exactly what he would do again. Given the fact that the girl has made friends this will attract unwanted attention. And although we have been careful", the smile on the Friend's face turned slightly sardonic, "he does know faces. And meeting locations."

Again, his companion pondered this in silence for a while.

"I understand", he finally said. "There shall be no noise though."

The smile on the Friend's face was delicate.

"Was there noise in Picpus?"

"You were preying on sheep. Now you are taking on a wolf."

The Friend smiled.

"I know what I am doing."

His companion nodded.

"I hope so, for both our sakes. You said there would be a replacement?"

"I would not call it that way", the Friend answered. "I would have proposed him, even if this unfortunate incident had not happened."

"I see. What is his motivation?"

"Grandeur, I would say. Curiosity. And of course a certain notion of freedom."

"Ah yes. That. They are on their way."

"That is good to hear", the Friend said. "Although we have been unsuccessful in acquiring the drawings."

"We will try to remedy that", his companion answered. "Or at least delay the discovery. That they have been seen at all is unfortunate."

"The clearest description is that of the Hound", the Friend reminded him. "The drawings of the Boy, the Juggler and the Knife are significantly vaguer, it seems."

"How fortunate." The sarcasm was impossible to miss.

"Indeed."

"Ah well."

"Has he chosen a name?"

"I have chosen one for him", the Friend smiled broadly. "A befitting one giving the future…"

A raised brow was the answer and the Friend continued.

"The Spark."

An hour later, the back room of the Musain was again buzzing with the activity that Éponine had come to expect from it, even though today, unlike the evening before, the quick whirlwind of discussions, arguments and tales seemed to be a bit more difficult to bear.

The effects of the drug were receding, although the nausea and dizziness had been joined by a feeling of freezing, which Joly had treated by lending her his jacket. She had considered arguing but decided against it, and in fact the warm cloth dispelled at least part of the shivering effortlessly.

The friends had placed together three of the tables to form one big round and had gathered around it, and she was sitting amidst them as if she had never done anything else.

Dinner was on the table, and even though the smell of the coq au vin was still a bit trying on her unsettled stomach, Joly had mercilessly convinced her to at least try and eat some soup. While she did not appreciate being patronized, she had to admit that it helped settle her stomach; if only to remove the hollow feeling and return some strength into her bones. She was certain she would need it.

The first one to arrive had been Jean Prouvaire, who had been in the company of a slightly older man that was known at least to some of the assembly. The foreigner excused himself after the exchange of a few pleasantries in a manner that told Éponine that he was somewhat uncomfortable with the situation that he found himself presented with.

Next were Marius and Combeferre, who, according to the discussions around the table, had been sent on a mission to Le Globe. Something seemed to have happened there, though, because Marius was slightly subdued despite Combeferre claiming that their errand had been successful, and he gave her nothing more than a curt nod, before he took up his place two seats away from here to glumly and thoughtfully stare into the glass that Courfeyrac placed in front of him.

Éponine was at equal measures dismayed at his disinterest and glad that she did not have to explain to him what had happened to her.

Last appeared the young worker named Feuilly, and there was a slightly tense moment when it turned out that he had not come alone.

At his side there was a young woman, blonde, blue-eyed, slightly round-faced, with a dimpled smile that almost allowed forgetting how exquisitely dressed she was.

Éponine remembered that Marius had told her once that women usually had no business being in the back room, but after a quick discussion – seeing as how she was here, and seeing as how there had been a number of ladies present the evening before – no one seemed to be too keen to stand on ceremony.

The woman took a seat next to Éponine and introduced herself as Katya – a first name without a last to go by, which was either curious given her obvious station or very self-explanatory if it was an attempt at stealth. The way she leaned into Feuilly's shoulder as he sat on her other side left no questions as to her relationship with him. Éponine was inclined to let the lady keep her secrets for the moment, though.

She filed her observation for further reference and watched as the discussion unfolded, as everyone recalled the events of their days and they evaluated, discussed and judged, as she now knew they were prone to do. Feeling slightly tense, she dreaded the moment when she would have to explain what had happened to her.

Sometime later later, the assembly had broken down into smaller groups that were discussing amongst themselves, and Éponine seriously asked herself why she had not fled from the place yet.

The second interrogation had been, if anything, even worse than the first, because the pity and worry was magnified, and while in an abstract sense, it was a glamorous thing that Marius of all people worried about her, there was something about his concern that put her on the edge.

Only a few moments later she realized that his reaction, although seeming genuine enough, had had the air of a reflex, a movement ingrained deeply into his being without reaching his core. He had fretted and asked for her well-being, but for the first time she realized that his heart was not fully in it. He was preoccupied and clearly thinking of something else.

The revelation seemed to enhance the nausea in her stomach again, and it made any kind words even more unbearable.

It was the woman named Katya, who chipped in a few sentences of her intention to mention the incident to some of her associates. The following discussion steered away from her very personal experience, and if nothing else, Éponine was grateful for that. She tried to discern from the friendly, almost homely face, whether her intervention had been intentional or not, but Katya's blue eyes had nothing to say on that matter.

And now that the general discussion was over, Éponine had gotten up to fill her mug from the small barrel that was placed in one corner of the room – it had apparently been Bahorel's turn to buy food and drinks today. From that location, she watched Katya standing at the exit of the back room saying goodbye to a very tired-looking Feuilly.

There were few words, just gestures, obviously familiar and appreciated, as fingers entwined, a kiss was exchanged and her smile spread over to his face in what seemed an almost involuntary infection.

"Will I see you next week?" he asked, and she nodded, flashing that smile again.

"Without doubt", she answered, throwing a quick glance to Courfeyrac, who hovered at some distance from them, observing the scenery as well. He nodded, as if she had asked a question.

"What about the salon on Sunday?" he continued, and Katya shrugged slightly.

"I don't know, Maurice. That's not in my hands. I'll try, though."

He nodded.

"That is good enough for me."

She took a deep breath, and for a moment, her face turned serious, blue eyes slightly darker than before.

"Take care, will you?" It was not the lighthearted statement that it could have been, and he obviously understood her meaning, answering with a simple nod before he obviously reluctantly gave her up to Courfeyrac, who led her out of the back room in a perfect gentleman's gesture. They were followed by Bahorel, who claimed loudly that they would be back in no time.

"Another sad set of fetters, is it not?"

The words, being spoken fairly close to her, made her jump slightly, although she immediately berated herself for it. The day had obviously left more of a mark than she would have admitted, but if Enjolras realized this he did not show it. His gaze instead was fixed on Feuilly, who watched Katya go before he took a rallying breath and joined Combeferre and Joly in a discussion that Éponine had neither the will nor the capability to follow.

Belatedly she realized he was expecting an answer while she had none.

"What do you mean?" she therefore asked.

"Her mother does not approve", Enjolras explained. "She is a member of nobility, and her mother does not deem a fan maker appropriate." There was a hard note around his mouth, his blue eyes fixed on the now vacated spot where the two had said good bye.

Éponine frowned but she understood what he was saying.

"And that would be different in that republic of yours."

"Ours", he contradicted immediately, without even a blink of hesitation. "And I would certainly hope so."

Éponine looked up towards him quizzically. This was a statement which was truly at odds with what she thought she had heard of Enjolras before. In fact, she had been faced with the dubious honor of listening to Marius' complaints about his friend's non-acceptance of Cosette for longer than she would have cared to. She had once even heard Enjolras complain about Marius being distracted by his feelings, and the argument had been fierce.

For a moment she wondered if it were impertinent to ask, but then she realized that politeness had never gotten her anywhere with Enjolras.

"Sounds odd coming from you, given how much you disapprove of Marius and Cosette, if you take my meaning."

His lips twitched slightly at this again, and he held her gaze for a moment, before he turned towards the room again, crossing his arms and leaning almost elegantly against the wall behind him.

"See for yourself", he advised. "I'm sure you'll understand."

Éponine followed his gaze and realized almost immediately what he meant.

Feuilly was sitting next to Combeferre and Joly, and even though his tiredness was evident in the pallor of his face, he was following the discussion between the two of them alertly, eyes darting from one to the other as he chipped in questions or comments at times.

Marius, on the other hand, had chosen a quieter spot, next to Jean Prouvaire, who was in the process of noting down something that Éponine could not discern, and glanced sorrowfully into his mug as he swirled around the liquid in it. He looked sad.

"I see", she slowly said, although she thought that Enjolras was probably being slightly unjust to Marius. Katya had seemed like an easy person to like. Cosette… well, was Cosette. But at least, she could follow Enjolras' point, and so she nodded.

Silence settled between them for a moment, while Éponine watched Marius in his sorrow. Something must have happened during the time that he had been out with Combeferre, and she longed to know what it was. And if she could help him.

Anything would be better than being haunted by the events of the day.

"I lost your knife today", she explained after a moment, not really sure why she even brought it up. She had remembered it only when she had seen Enjolras, and there was some real remorse, both at the item, which had been of quite some value, and of the way, how their banter about giving back or not the weapon had suddenly turned so serious. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged nonchalantly.

"I hope", he answered coolly, "it made a good price."

For a moment, Éponine stared at him in exasperation, but he flashed her a quick glance, and she was utterly surprised at the fact, that one might have almost thought that Enjolras had just made a joke.

She decided to laugh. He did not follow, but he did not chastise her for it either, and that was enough for this moment.

It would be good to think about this comment when she thought about the knife. And not on how exactly she had lost it.

"Is the reason for you having to leave what I think it is?" Enjolras asked suddenly. He was not looking at her, but something told her that she had his undivided attention none the less.

Eponine took a rallying sip from her mug. She had somewhat expected this conversation, but now that it was there, it found her still with not much to say.

"Are you sure you want to know?" she asked in slight exasperation.

"I do not ask questions without intent, Éponine", his reply came, slightly tense but without hesitation. He had not moved, and still they were unobserved for the moment, as all of the group were occupied with their own tasks and they were left to this conversation of hers.

"So what is it you think?" Éponine threw his question back at him, and a slight huff of breath coming from him made her glance towards Enjolras from the corner of an eye. He was slightly shaking his head, but he dignified her with a response none the less.

"I assume that this night will see you going to La Force to help these associates of yours."

For a moment Éponine considered lying, but then she decided against it. At least, the group of students was some sort of protection. They would probably not approve of her intention, but she did not think they would go as far as hold her back.

Therefore she nodded.

"You are in their debt, I assume", he continued, neutrally. "Caged, of sorts."

"How would you say it? In fetters?" Éponine gave back in the same tone, mimicking his gesture of watching the group of young men discuss and argue before them. It was a strange view, as if seen through a window. "Actually", she continued, "that is not true. It is simple human decency. Nothing more."

That made him turn his head towards her, and she realized again that he was capable of a very disquieting kind of magnetism. She understood why he was able to make all those friends of his follow him.

If they were even his friends, and not his disciples.

Currently, however, he was not intent on conviction. There was a slight, challenging curiosity in his blue eyes.

"Why so?" he asked.

Éponine took some time to ponder her answer before she gave it. Again, she opted for honesty. Lying to him might be worth a try, but he knew and had seen too much. It was, from the way he asked, quite possible that he already knew the whole story and was only asking for the sake of the question.

Or for the sake of judging her reaction, Éponine all of a sudden realized.

With Enjolras, it was a trial, every step of the way. She felt continuously on probation, as if he were judging and estimating her every reaction drawing his own conclusions from that.

It was hard to think that they were favorable ones, but he had not chased her away yet – no, indeed, she had been invited, and so she must have done something appropriate in his eyes.

Whatever that might have been.

She felt slight anger and being manipulated thus and refused to fall into the trap he had set her.

She would not have Marius know who she really was, but it was rather too late for that when it came to Enjolras. He had not betrayed her before. It was likely he would continue to be silent.

"Because I was there with them. It's not just that they are in prison and I'm not. I'm the one who's free. So I'm the one who has to bail them out. Wouldn't you do the same for your friends?"

He pondered this for a moment.

"That depends on what they did", he finally responded, his voice carrying a ring of honesty, as his gaze went back to the assembled group, slightly glazing over as he was pondering his own thoughts.

Éponine, having seen how close they were, had trouble believing it.

"Really?" she asked, dosing her voice with a healthy measure of sarcasm.

"Well", he replied. "If they were involved in deeds I consider despicable, they would not be my friends." There was a hard note to his voice.

"That's too easy." The words were out before she could stop them and his head whipped around as he glared at her, blue eyes blazing, but she had expected it and seen it coming. "There is no such thing as black and white. If they're your friends, they're your friends. You don't judge them on a single deed, do you? If they did a lot of good, and then one bad thing?"

"That depends on the deed", he reiterated with cool calm, but Éponine crossed her arms before her and glared at him defiantly.

"What about me?" For a moment, he hesitated, and she pressed on. "I've done the same they did. Still you invited me."

"Yes", Enjolras answered, with slight exasperation. "But you did save Madame de Cambout in the process."

"That was coincidence", Éponine replied. "We were all there, Enjolras. We were intending to rob them."

He held her gaze.

"Why?"

"Because that's the way which we have to bring food on the table and a roof over our head."

Enjolras took a deep breath, and Éponine saw his fingers clenching around his arms.

"And that is the worst of the fetters. People being driven to these deeds by circumstance." He took a deep breath, and something in his face softened slightly. "Indeed, the question that is forgotten in what passes for a legal system these days is the intent behind a deed. A soldier who kills in battle does not carry the same guilt as an assassin does when he murders with a knife. The thief who steals out of hunger and necessity does not carry the same guilt as the man who robs to heighten his riches. We cannot continue to see only the deed and not the motivation."

Éponine blinked in surprise. She certainly had not heard that concept before, coming from someone like him. Again he was saying things that she had not expected, and again it caught her off her guard.

"That's… something for your new republic as well, I guess", she managed, and he responded with the twitch of his lips that she actually thought might be his idea of a smile.

"Very much so", he replied, and she recognized the tone, the deep conviction that he used in his speeches and that had all the alluring qualities of a magic spell. For what felt the hundredth time she wondered if he knew how dangerous that tone of voice was.

She forced herself back to the practical.

"That means you're not going to stop me?"

He sighed.

"Éponine. I have no inclination to stop you from doing something you are determined to carry out. My preferences on your actions do not factor into this equation. If you are determined, and you feel what you are doing is just and true, you should do it. I was merely questioning your motivation. You have answered." He unfolded his arms to shove his hands into the pockets of his trousers. It was a casual gesture that seemed off-character with respect to his usual behavior and transformed his posture. "Your decisions are your own Éponine. This is a universal truth you should not forget."

Little did he know. Little did this bourgeois boy, for all his talk of a new republic, know of the web her father had entangled her in. Little did he know of Patron-Minette, of letters whispering lies into the ears of the wealthy, of silent steps in the night. Little did he know of the guilt and former affection that bound her to Montparnasse, and of all the small promises and favors that held together her world.

He was bourgeois. He would not understand.

And yet the picture he painted was a beautiful dream.

"When you go to La Force", Enjolras continued, all of a sudden, and she would have almost flinched in surprise, "there are a few things you should consider."

She turned towards him, but he was gazing into the room again as he continued to speak.

"After being brought to the prison, the first day usually sees an interrogation of the subject to determine their manner of stay. For those who are likely to stay in prison longer than just a few days, this usually implies a change in location from the interrogation cells into a more permanent lodging to free the interrogation cells for the next day. As a result, these associates of yours would now be found in the New Building on the third floor I presume. You would do well to factor this into your planning."

Éponine could not help but stare the man standing nonchalantly at her side.

"What?" slipped past her lips before she could help it, and he turned around with a slight frown.

"Yes?"

She shook her head.

"How do you know?"

"You may be aware", Enjolras said calmly, "that I am a student of the law and in possession of a letter granting me access to La Force to some extent."

"Yes I know", Éponine answered impatiently. "But…"

"Your associates, Éponine, are guilty of theft. There is no doubt when it comes to this. This would, on first glance, convince me that their stay in prison is a justified one. However, our visit yesterday, as well as the overall setup, have given me the fear, that the crime that is being placed on them is one that they indeed did not commit. From you as well as from Madame de Cambout I have had the real account on the death of Monsieur de Cambout, and I am inclined to believe your associates had no hand in it. None the less, as far as I can judge, there are forces which try to attach that particular deed to your friends. That, on the other hand, is not justified." He hesitated for a moment before continuing.

"I assume this is done for reasons of stealth. Hence, by removing the culprits from the hands of our opponents, I am making a move to inhibit their plans."

"Nice words", Éponine commented.

"This is not about words." Now, again, there was an edge to Enjolras' voice. "And make no mistake. I do not like this. I do not like this in the slightest bit. But for one, I cannot and will not stop you. Yet we have decided to trust one another, and I am true to my word. And for the second, I am certain I am standing against the greater injustice."

He pressed his lips together and looking at his arms Éponine realized that his hands were probably fisted in his pockets. Yet, something within her appreciated his gesture. He had taken a leap for her, however many other explanations he was giving for it.

She fumbled with the response for a moment.

"Thank you", she finally said.

His arms slightly relaxed and he nodded, as if to himself.

"I am expecting you in Rue Pascal when this deed is done, Éponine." His voice was not particularly strong, but the absolute nature of this statement was not to be missed. "If you have not appeared at daybreak, we will make inquiries."

Her first reflex was to protest, but his posture was so determined, his gaze so clear that she decided against it.

A place of safety, wherever it came from, was not easily denied.

Éponine left around midnight, the aftereffects of the opium having waned until she seemed to be quite her usual self now.

Courfeyrac did not like to see her leaving, especially after what had happened earlier today, but both her determined stance and a slightly surprising comment from Enjolras put him off the matter for the moment. She was as easy – or rather as difficult – to direct as her brother.

With slight worry, Courfeyrac realized that he had seen neither head nor hair of Gavroche today. He had been around town, first at the Necker, then at the home of the Woronieckis, where he had collected Katya with all the charm and dash that was befitting for the suitor of a noble lady – the game of make-believe was sometimes annoying, but he followed through for the sake of Feuilly – and finally to the Barrière du Maine with Grantaire, but during all of these walks, Gavroche had failed to turn up.

Although he was fairly certain that the boy knew the streets, their dangers and safer corners better than any of them, it was a disquieting thought. However, he had found no way of asking Éponine without alerting her to the fact that he knew of her connection to the boy, and hence he was left to ponder in worry.

The Musain had become much quieter.

Bossuet and Joly had left already, taking Feuilly with them who seemed tired enough to fall asleep standing; and by the way Jehan was rubbing over his eyes as he was writing he saw the same exhaustion in the poet's posture.

Combeferre was not much better, although he was bearing it more gracefully, but the fact alone that a question posed by Enjolras had to be repeated three times before he registered it was a telltale sign enough.

They were certainly all on their last legs. Marius and Courfeyrac had gotten comparatively much sleep, but it seemed as if their friends had not been quite as lucky in that respect.

He was about to suggest to retire for the night, when again steps from the entrance of the back room alerted his attention. The speed of the approaching sound did not bode well, and all of them tensed at it, each in his own way.

Courfeyrac, for his part, slipped his hand into his jacket that was hanging over a chair next to him to retrieve a pistol, but at the sight of a disheveled Pierre Berat entering the back room he replaced it without having even been fully drawn.

The xylographist was gasping for breath after obviously hurrying for a distance, and sweat plastered his locks to his forehead and his chemise to his arms. Courfeyrac wondered if he had run all the way from Boulevard des Italiens.

Enjolras reacted first.

"Berat!" he exclaimed. "What's the matter?"

The xylographist took only a moment to rally himself.

"It's Madame", he replied. "They… they have arrested Madame."

However tired Combeferre might have been before, this roused him immediately. His shocked exclamation of "What?" made Courfeyrac turn towards him, and he realized that his friend's face was almost white, drained of all blood as he stared at the xylographist. He had gotten up and was leaning on the table, knuckles white. "Come… again?"

Berat gulped for air.

"The police has just arrested Madame de Cambout", he brought out slightly more coherently. "Directly out of the headquarters. They are taking her to prison as we speak."

Courfeyrac shook his head.

"I knew that article was a mistake", he could not help saying. "Bold and admirable, but a mistake", but Berat cut him off with a violent shake of his head.

"No, it's not that. They haven't arrested her for that. She's arrested for murder, Monsieur Courfeyrac. For murder of her husband."

A toppling sound made him turn to Combeferre again who had dropped back onto the chair he had been sitting on and was just hiding his face in his hands.

"Oh no", he whispered, and then, even more quietly, "God; no…"

Courfeyrac would have heartily supported his words and felt acutely the dismay of his friend. Torn between questioning Berat and lending some support to Combeferre, he was interrupted by the xylographist, who, leaning against one of the pillars as he caught his breath, continued to speak.

"And that's not all", he said. "When they came, there was chaos in the headquarters. They were searching…"

He took a deep breath, facing Enjolras directly, before he continued.

"The drawings and the xylographs. I couldn't find them when they had left. I'm afraid our pictures of the assassins are gone."


End file.
